'/ 


PAWNED 

FRANK    L.     PACKARD 


BY  FRANK  L.  PACKARD 

PAWNED 

THE   WHITE   MOLL 

FROM   NOW   ON 

THE   NIGHT   OPERATOR 

THE     FURTHER    ADVENTURES    OF 
JIMMIE     DALE 

THE   ADVENTURES  OF   JIMMIE 
DALE 

THE   WIRE   DEVILS 

THE   SIN   THAT   WAS   HIS 

THE    BELOVED   TRAITOR 

GREATER     LOVE     HATH     NO     MAN 

THE    MIRACLE    MAN 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PAWNED 


BY 

FRANK    L.    PACKARD 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  WHITE  MOLL,"  "THE  NIGHT 
OPERATOR,"   "THE    FURTHER   ADVEN- 
TURES OF  JIMMIE  DALE,"  ETC. 


NEW  ^IST  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1921, 
BY   FRANK   L.    PACKARD 


PRIKTBC   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


SRLf 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

By  Way  of  Introduction 

HER  STORY 9 

HIS    STORY    [TWENTY  YEARS  AFTER]       .       .  16 

The  Book  Itself 

THEIR  STORY      : 4, 

CHAPTER  ONE:    ALADDIN'S  LAMP          ...  41 

CHAPTER  TWO:    THE  MILLIONAIRE  PLUNGER  48 

CHAPTER  THREE:     SANCTUARY       .       ...       .  61 

CHAPTER  FOUR:    A    DOCTOR    OF    MANY    DE- 
GREES          73 

CHAPTER  FIVE:     HAWKINS          .....  93 

CHAPTER  SIX:    THE  ALIBI 101 

CHAPTER  SEVEN:    THE  GIRL  OF  THE  TRAVEL- 
ING PAWN-SHOP no 

CHAPTER  EIGHT:    ALLIES    .       .       .       .       .       .119 

CHAPTER  NINE:    THE  CONSPIRATORS         .       .  129 

CHAPTER  TEN:    AT  FIVE  MINUTES  TO  EIGHT  13* 

CHAPTER  ELEVEN:    THE  RENDEZVOUS        .       .  142 

CHAPTER  TWELVE:    THE  FIGHT     ....  148 

CHAPTER  THIRTEEN:    TRAPPINGS  OF  TINSEL  159 

CHAPTER  FOURTEEN:    THE  TWO  PENS      .       .  170 
v 


vi  CONTENTS 

The  Book  Itself — (Continued) 

FAGC 

CHAPTER  FIFTEEN:  THE  CLEW  .  .  .  .186 
CHAPTER  SIXTEEN :  A  WOLF  LICKS  HIS  CHOPS  200 
CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN:  ALIAS  MR.  ANDERSON  207 
CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN:  THE  HOSTAGE  .  .  216 
CHAPTER  NINETEEN:  CABIN  H— 14  .  .  .228 
CHAPTER  TWENTY:  OUTSIDE  THE  DOOR  .  238 
CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE:  THE  LAST  CHANCE  245 

CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO :    THROUGH    THE 

NIGHT 264 

CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE:  THE  BEST  MAN  274 
CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR:  THE  RIDE  281 


BY  WAY   OF   INTRODUCTION 


PAWNED 


HER  STORY 

A  HANSOM  cab,  somewhat  woebegone  in 
appearance,  threaded  its  way  in  a  curiously 
dejected  manner  through  the  heart  of  New 
York's  East  Side.  A  fine  drizzle  fell,  through  which 
the  street  lamps  showed  as  through  a  mist;  and,  with 
the  pavements  slippery,  the  emaciated  looking  horse, 
the  shafts  jerking  and  lifting  up  at  intervals  around  its 
ears,  appeared  hard  put  to  it  to  preserve  its  footing. 
The  cabman  on  his  perch  drove  with  his  coat  collar 
turned  up  and  his  chin  on  his  breast.  He  held  the 
reins  listlessly,  permitting  the  horse  to  choose  its  own 
gait.  At  times  he  lifted  the  little  trap  door  in  the  roof 
of  the  cab  and  peered  into  the  interior;  occasionally  his 
hand,  tentatively,  hesitantly,  edged  toward  a  bulge 
in  his  coat  pocket — only  to  be  drawn  back  again  in  a 
sort  of  panic  haste. 

The  cab  turned  into  a  street  where,  in  spite  of  the 
drizzle,  hawkers  with  their  push-carts  under  flaring, 
spitting  gasoline  banjoes  were  doing  a  thriving  busi- 
ness. The  horse  went  more  slowly.  There  was  very 
little  room.  With  the  push-carts  lining  the  curbs  on 
both  sides,  and  the  overflow  of  pedestrians  from  the 
sidewalks  into  the  street,  it  was  perhaps  over-taxing 

9 


io  PAWNED 

the  horse's  instinct  to  steer  a  safe  course  for  the 
vehicle  it  dragged  behind  it.  Halfway  along  the  block 
a  wheel  of  the  hansom  bumped  none  too  gently  into 
one  of  the  push-carts,  nearly  upsetting  the  latter.  The 
hawker,  with  a  frantic  grab,  saved  his  wares  from  dis- 
aster by  an  uncomfortably  narrow  margin,  and,  this 
done,  hurled  an  impassioned  flood  of  lurid  oratory  at 
the  two-wheeler. 

The  cabman  lifted  his  chin  from  his  breast,  stared 
stonily  at  the  hawker,  slaoped  the  reins  mechanically 
on  the  roof  of  the  cab  as  an  intimation  to  the  horse  to 
proceed,  and  the  cab  wended  its  way  along  again. 

At  the  end  of  the  block,  it  turned  the  corner,  and 
drew  up  before  a  small  building  that  was  nested  in 
between  two  tenements.  The  cabman  climbed  down 
from  his  perch,  and  stood  for  a  moment  surveying  the 
three  gilded  balls  that  hung  over  the  dingy  doorway, 
and  the  lettering — "Paul  Veniza.  Pawnbroker" — 
that  showed  on  the  dully-lighted  windows  which  con- 
fronted him. 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes;  then,  reaching 
suddenly  inside  the  cab,  lifted  a  bundle  in  his  arms, 
and  entered  the  shop.  A  man  behind  the  counter  stared 
at  him,  and  uttered  a  quick  ejaculation.  The  cabman 
went  on  into  a  rear  room.  The  man  from  behind  the 
counter  followed.  In  the  rear  room,  a  woman  rose 
from  a  table  where  she  had  been  sewing,  and  took  the 
bundle  quickly  from  the  cabman's  arms,  as  it  emitted 
a  querrulous  little  cry. 

The  cabman  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"She's  dead,"  he  said  heavily. 

The  woman,  buxom,  middle-aged,  stared  at  him, 
white-faced,  her  eyes  filling  suddenly  with  tears. 


HER  STORY  n 

"She  died  an  hour  ago,"  said  the  cabman,  in  the 
same  monotonous  voice.  "I  thought  mabbe  you'd  look 
after  the  baby  girl  for  a  bit,  Mrs.  Veniza — you  and 
Paul." 

"Of  course!"  said  the  woman  in  a  choked  voice. 
"I  wanted  to  before,  but — but  your  wife  wouldn't  let 
the  wee  mite  out  of  her  sight." 

"She's  dead  now,"  said  the  cabman.  "An  hour 
ago." 

Paul  Veniza,  the  pawnbroker,  crossed  to  the  cab- 
man's side,  and,  placing  his  hands  on  the  other's 
shoulders,  drew  the  man  down  into  a  chair. 

"Hawkins,"  he  said  slowly,  "we're  getting  on  in 
years,  fifty  each  of  us,  and  we've  known  each  other 
for  a  good  many  of  those  fifty."  He  cleared  his  throat. 
"You've  made  a  mess  of  things,  Hawkins." 

The  woman,  holding  the  baby,  started  suddenly  for- 
ward, a  red  flush  dyeing  her  cheeks. 

"Paul!"  she  cried  out  sharply.  "How  can  you  be 
so  cruel  at  such  an  hour  as  this?" 

The  pawnbroker  shook  his  head.  He  had  moved  to 
the  back  of  the  cabman's  chair.  Tall,  slight,  grave  and 
kindly-faced,  with  high  forehead  and  the  dark  hair 
beginning  to  silver  at  the  temples,  there  seemed  some- 
thing almost  esthetic  about  the  man. 

"It  is  the  hour,"  he  said  deliberately;  "the  one  hour 
in  which  I  must  speak  plainly  to  my  old  friend,  the  one 
hour  that  has  come  into  his  life  which  may  mean  every- 
thing to  him."  His  right  hand  slipped  from  the  cab- 
man's shoulder  and  started,  tentatively,  hesitantly, 
toward  a  bulge  in  the  cabman's  coat  pocket — but  was 
drawn  back  again,  and*  found  its  place  once  more  on 
the  cabman's  shoulder.  "I  was  afraid,  Hawkins,  when 


12  PAWNED 

you  married  the  young  wife.  I  was  afraid  of  your 
curse." 

The  cabman's  elbows  were  on  the  table;  he  had  sunk 
his  chin  in  his  hands.  His  blue  eyes,  out  of  a  wrinkled 
face  of  wind-beaten  tan,  roved  around  the  little  room, 
and  rested  finally  on  the  bundle  in  the  woman's  arms. 

"That's  finished  now,"  he  said  dully. 

"I  pray  God  it  is,"  said  Paul  Veniza  earnestly; 
"but  you  said  that  before — when  you  married  the 
young  wife." 

"It's  finished  now — so  help  me,  God!"  The  cab- 
man's lips  scarcely  moved.  He  stared  straight  in 
front  of  him. 

There  was  silence  in  the  little,  plainly  furnished 
room  for  a  moment;  then  the  pawnbroker  spoke 
again : 

"I  was  born  here  in  New  York,  you  know,  after  my 
parents  came  from  Italy.  There  was  no  money,  noth- 
ing— only  misery.  I  remember.  It  is  like  that,  Haw- 
kins, isn't  it,  where  you  have  just  come  from,  and 
where  you  have  left  the  young  wife?" 

"Paul!"  his  wife  cried  out  again.  "How  can  you 
say  such  things?  It — it  is  not  like  you!"  Her  lips 
quivered.  She  burst  into  tears,  and  buried  her  face  in 
the  little  bundle  she  snuggled  to  her  breast. 

The  cabman  seemed  curiously  unmoved — as  though 
dazed,  almost  detached  from  his  immediate  surround- 
ings. He  said  nothing. 

The  pawnbroker's  hands  still  rested  on  the  cabman's 
shoulders,  a  strange  gentleness  in  his  touch  that  sought 
somehow,  it  seemed,  to  offer  sympathy  for  his  own 
merciless  words. 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  this  for  a  long  time,  ever 


,      HER  STORY  13 

since  we  knew  that  Claire  could  not  get  better,"  he 
said.  "We  knew  you  would  bring  the  little  one  here. 
There  was  no  other  place,  except  an  institution.  And 
so  I  have  been  thinking  about  it.  What  is  the  little 
one's  name?" 

The  cabman  shook  his  head. 

"She  has  no  name,"  he  said. 

"Shall  it  be  Claire,  then?"  asked  the  pawnbroker 
gently. 

The  cabman's  fingers,  where  they  rested  on  his 
cheeks,  gathered  a  fold  of  flesh  and  tightened  until 
the  blood  fled,  leaving  little  white  spots.  He  nodded 
his  head. 

Again  the  pawnbroker  was  silent  for  a  little  while. 

"My  wife  and  I  will  take  little  Claire — on  one  con- 
dition," he  said  at  last,  gravely.  "And  that  condition 
is  that  she  is  to  grow  up  as  our  child,  and  that,  though 
you  may  come  here  and  see  her  as  often  as  you  like, 
she  is  not  to  know  that  you  are  her  father." 

The  cabman  turned  about  a  haggard  face. 

"Not  to  know  that  I  am  her  father — ever,"  he  said 
huskily. 

"I  did  not  say  that,"  said  Paul  Veniza  quietly.  He 
smiled  now,  leaning  over  the  cabman.  "I  am  a  pawn- 
broker; this  is  a  pawn-shop.  There  is  a  way  in  which 
you  may  redeem  her." 

The  cabman  pressed  a  heavy  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"What  is  that  way?"  He  swallowed  hard  as  he 
spoke. 

"By  redeeming  yourself."  The  pawnbroker's  voice 
was  low  and  earnest.  "What  have  you  to  offer  her 
to-day,  save  a  past  that  has  brought  only  ruin  and 
misery?  And  for  the  future,  my  old  friend?  There 


i4  PAWNED 

is  no  home.  There  was  no  home  for  the  young  wife. 
You  said  when  you  married  Claire,  as  you  have  said 
to-night,  that  it  was  all  finished.  But  it  was  not  fin- 
ished. And  your  curse  was  the  stronger.  Well,  little 
Claire  is  only  a  baby,  and  there  would  be  years,  any- 
how, before  just  a  man  could  take  care  of  her.  Do 
you  understand,  my  old  friend?  If,  at  the  end  of  those 
years,  enough  of  them  to  make  sure  that  you  are  sure 
of  yourself,  you  have  changed  your  life  and  overcome 
your  weakness,  then  you  shall  have  little  Claire  back 
again,  and  she  shall  know  you  as  her  father,  and  be 
proud  of  you.  But  if  you  do  not  do  this,  then  she  re- 
mains with  us,  and  we  are  her  parents,  and  you  pledge 
me  your  word  that  it  shall  be  so." 

There  was  no  answer  for  a  long  time.  The  woman 
was  still  crying — but  more  softly  now.  The  cabman's 
chin  had  sunk  into  his  hands  again.  The  minutes 
dragged  along.  Finally  the  cabman  lifted  his  head, 
and,  pushing  back  his  chair,  stumbled  to  his  feet. 

"God — God  bless  you  both!"  he  whispered.  "It's 
all  finished  now  for  good,  as  I  told  you,  but  you  are 
right,  Paul.  I — I  ain't  fit  to  have  her  yet.  I'll  stand 
by  the  bargain."  He  moved  blindly  toward  the  door. 

The  pawnbroker  interposed. 

"Wait,  Hawkins,  old  friend,"  he  said.  'Til  go  with 
you.  You'll  need  some  help  back  there  in  the  tene- 
ment, some  one  to  look  after  the  things  that  are  to 
be  done." 

The  cabman  shook  his  head. 

"Not  to-night,"  he  said  in  a  choked  way.  "Leave 
me  alone  to-night." 

He  moved  again  toward  the  door,  and  this  time 
Paul  Veniza  stepped  aside,  but,  following,  stood  bare- 


HER  STORY  15 

headed  in  the  doorway  as  the  other  clambered  to  his 
perch  on  the  hansom  cab. 

Hawkins  slapped  his  reins  on  the  roof  of  the  cab. 
The  horse  started  slowly  forward. 

The  drizzle  had  ceased;  but  the  horse,  left  to  his 
own  initiative,  was  still  wary  of  the  wet  pavements 
and  moved  at  no  greater  pace  than  a  walk.  Hawkins 
drove  with  his  coat  collar  still  turned  up  and  his  chin 
on  his  breast. 

And  horse  and  man  went  aimlessly  from  street  to 
street — and  the  night  grew  late. 

And  the  cabman's  hand  reached  tentatively,  hesi- 
tantly, a  great  many  times,  toward  a  bulge  in  his  coat 
pocket,  and  for  a  great  many  times  was  withdrawn  as 
empty  as  it  had  set  forth.  And  then,  once,  his  fingers 
touched  a  glass  bottle  neck  .  .  .  and  then,  not  his  fin- 
gers, but  his  lips  .  .  .  and  for  a  great  many  times. 

It  had  begun  to  rain  again. 

The  horse,  as  if  conscious  of  the  futility  of  its  own 
movements,  had  stopped,  and,  with  head  hanging, 
seemed  to  cower  down  as  though  seeking  even  the 
slender  protection  of  the  shafts,  whose  ends  now  made 
half  circles  above  his  ears. 

Something  slipped  from  the  cabman's  fingers  and 
fell  with  a  crash  to  the  pavement.  The  cabman  leaned 
out  from  his  perch  and  stared  down  at  the  shattered 
glass. 

"Broken,"  said  the  cabman  vacantly. 


HIS  STORY 

TWENTY  YEARS  LATER 

IT  was  silver  light.  Inside  the  reefs  the  water  lay 
placid  and  still,  mirroring  in  a  long,  shimmering 
line  the  reflection  of  the  full  tropic  moon;  beyond, 
ever  and  anon,  it  splashed  against  its  coral  barriers  in 
little  crystal  showers.  It  was  a  soundless  night.  No 
breeze  stirred  the  palms  that,  fringing  white  stretches 
of  beach  around  the  bay,  stood  out  in  serene  beauty, 
their  irregular  tops  etched  with  divine  artistry  into  the 
sky-line  of  the  night. 

Out  from  the  shore,  in  that  harbor  which  holds  no 
sanctuary  in  storm,  the  mail  boat,  dark  save  for  her 
riding  lights,  swung  at  her  moorings;  shoreward,  the 
perspective  altered  in  the  moonlight  until  it  seemed 
that  Mount  Vaea  had  lowered  its  sturdy  head  that  it 
might  hover  in  closer  guardianship  over  the  little  town, 
Apia  straggled  in  white  patches  along  the  road.  And 
from  these  white  patches,  which  were  dwellings  and 
stores,  there  issued  no  light. 

From  a  point  on  the  shore  nearest  the  mail  boat,  a 
figure  in  cotton  drawers  and  undershirt  slipped  silently 
into  the  water  and  disappeared.  Thereafter,  at  inter- 
vals, a  slight  ripple  disturbed  the  surface  as  the  man, 
coming  up  to  breathe,  turned  upon  his  back  and  lay 
with  his  face  exposed;  for  the  rest  he  swam  under 
water.  It  was  as  though  he  were  in  his  natural  ele- 

16 


HIS  STORY  17 

ment.  He  swam  superbly  even  where,  there  in  the 
Islands,  all  the  natives  were  born  to  the  sea;  but  his 
face,  when  visible  on  the  few  occasions  that  it  floated 
above  the  surface,  was  the  face,  not  of  a  native,  but 
of  a  white  man. 

And  now  he  came  up  in  the  shadow  of  the  steamer's 
hull  where,  near  the  stern,  a  rope  dangled  over  the 
side,  almost  touching  the  water's  edge.  And  for  a 
moment  he  hung  to  the  rope,  motionless,  listening. 
Then  he  began  to  swarm  upward  with  fine  agility, 
without  a  sound,  his  bare  feet  finding  silent  purchase 
against  the  iron  plates  of  the  hull. 

Halfway  up  he  paused  and  listened  intently  again. 
Was  that  a  sound  as  of  some  one  astir,  the  soft  move- 
ment of  feet  on  the  deck  above?  No,  there  was  noth- 
ing now.  Why  should  there  be?  It  was  very  late, 
and  Nanu,  the  man  who  lisped,  was  no  fool.  The 
rope  had  hung  from  exactly  that  place  where,  of  all 
others,  one  might  steal  aboard  without  attracting  the 
attention  of  the  watch. 

He  went  on  again,  and  finally  raised  his  head  above 
the  rail.  The  deck,  flooded  with  moonlight,  lay  white 
and  deserted  below  him.  He  swung  himself  over, 
dropped  to  the  deck — and  the  next  instant  reeled  back 
against  the  rail  as  a  rope-end,  swung  with  brutal  force, 
lashed  across  his  face,  raising  a  welt  from  cheek  to 
cheek.  Half  stunned,  he  was  still  conscious  that  a 
form  had  sprung  suddenly  at  him  from  out  of  the 
darkness  of  the  after  alleyway,  that  the  form  was  one 
of  the  vessel's  mates,  that  the  form  still  swung  a  short 
rope-end  that  was  a  murderous  weapon  because  it  was 
little  more  flexible  than  iron  and  was  an  inch  in  thick- 


1 8  PAWNED 

ness,  and  that,  behind  this  form,  other  forms,  big 
forms,  Tongans  of  the  crew,  pressed  forward. 

A  voice  roared  out,  hoarse,  profane,  the  mate's 
voice : 

''Thought  you'd  try  it  again,  did  you,  you  damned 
beachcomber?  I'll  teach  you!  And  when  I  find  the 
dog  that  left  that  rope  for  you,  I'll  give  him  a  leaf  out 
of  the  same  book!  You  bloody  waster  I  I'll  teach 
you!  I'll " 

The  rope-end  hissed  as  it  cut  through  the  air  again, 
aiming  for  the  swimmer's  face.  But  it  missed  its  mark. 
Perhaps  it  was  an  illusion  of  the  white  moonlight,  lend- 
ing unreality  to  the  scene,  exciting  the  imagination  to 
exaggerate  the  details,  but  the  swimmer  seemed  to 
move  with  incredible  speed,  with  the  lithe,  terrible 
swiftness  of  a  panther  in  its  spring.  The  rope-end 
swished  through  the  air,  missing  a  suddenly  lowered 
head  by  the  barest  fraction  of  an  inch,  and  then,  driven 
home  with  lightning-like  rapidity,  so  quick  that  the 
blows  seemed  as  one,  the  swimmer's  fists  swung,  right 
and  left,  crashing  with  terrific  impact  to  the  point  of  the 
mate's  jaw.  And  the  mate's  head  jolted  back,  quiv- 
ered grotesquely  on  his  shoulders  for  an  instant  like  a 
tuning  fork,  sagged,  and  the  great  bulk  of  the  man 
collapsed  and  sprawled  inertly  on  the  deck. 

There  was  a  shuffle  of  feet  from  the  alleyway,  cries. 
The  swimmer  swung  to  face  the  expected  rush,  and  it 
halted,  hesitant.  It  gave  him  time  to  spring  and  stand 
erect  upon  the  steamer's  rail.  On  the  upper  deck  faces 
and  forms  began  to  appear.  A  man  in  pajamas  leaned 
far  out  and  peered  at  the  scene. 

There  was  a  shout  from  out  of  the  dark,  grouped 
throng  in  the  alleyway;  it  was  chorused.  The  rush 


HIS  STORY  19 

came  on  again  for  the  rail;  and  the  dripping  figure  that 
stood  there,  with  the  first  sound  that  he  had  made — a 
laugh,  half  bitter,  half  of  cool  contempt — turned,  and 
with  a  clean  dive  took  the  water  again  and  disappeared. 

Presently  he  reached  the  shore.  There  were  more 
than  riding  lights  out  there  on  the  steamer  now.  He 
gave  one  glance  in  that  direction,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, and  started  off  along  the  road.  At  times  he 
raised  his  hand  to  brush  it  across  his  face  where  the 
welt,  raw  and  swollen  now,  was  a  dull  red  sear.  He 
walked  neither  fast  nor  slow. 

The  moonlight  caught  the  dripping  figure  now  and 
then  in  the  open  spaces,  and  seemed  to  peer  inquisi- 
tively at  the  great  breadth  of  shoulder,  and  the  rippling 
play  of  muscle  under  the  thin  cotton  drawers  and  shirt, 
which,  wet  and  clinging,  almost  transparent,  scarce  hid 
the  man's  nakedness;  and  at  the  face,  that  of  a  young 
man,  whose  square  jaw  was  locked,  whose  gray  eyes 
stared  steadily  along  the  road,  and  over  whose  fore- 
head, from  the  drenched,  untrimmed  mass  of  fair  hair, 
the  brine  trickled  in  little  rivulets  as  though  persistent 
in  its  effort  to  torture  with  its  salt  caress  the  raw, 
skin-broken  flesh  across  the  cheeks. 

Then  presently  a  point  of  land  ran  out,  and, 
the  road  ignoring  this,  the  bay  behind  was  shut  out 
from  view.  And  presently  again,  farther  on,  the  road 
came  to  a  long  white  stretch  of  beach  on  the  one  hand, 
and  foliage  and  trees  on  the  other.  And  here  the 
dripping  figure  halted  and  stood  hesitant  as  though 
undecided  between  the  moonlit  stretch  of  sand,  and  the 
darkness  of  a  native  hut  that  was  dimly  outlined 
amongst  the  trees  on  the  other  side  of  the  road. 

After  a  moment  he  made  his  way  to  the  hut  and, 


20  PAWNED 

groping  around,  secured  some  matches  and  a  box  of 
cigarettes.  He  spoke  into  the  empty  blackness. 

"You  lose,  Nanu,"  he  muttered  whimsically.  "They 
wouldn't  stand  water  and  I  left  them  for  you.  But 
now,  you  see,  I'm  back  again,  after  all." 

He  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  in  the  flame  of  the  match 
stared  speculatively  at  the  small,  broken  pieces  of  coral 
that  made  the  floor  of  the  hut,  and  equally,  by  the  addi- 
tion of  a  thin  piece  of  native  matting,  his  bed. 

"The  sand  is  softer,"  he  said  with  a  grim  drawl. 

He  went  out  from  the  hut,  crossed  the  road,  flung 
himself  upon  his  back  on  the  beach,  and  clasped  his 
hands  behind  his  head.  The  smoke  from  his  cigarette 
curled  languidly  upward  in  wavering  spirals,  and  he 
stared  for  a  long  time  at  the  moon. 

"Moon  madness,"  he  said  at  last.  "They  say  if  you 
look  long  enough  the  old  boy  does  you  in." 

The  cigarette  finished,  he  flung  the  stub  away.  After 
a  time,  he  raised  his  head  and  listened.  A  moment 
later  he  lay  back  again  full  length  on  the  sand.  The 
sound  of  some  one's  footsteps  coming  rapidly  along 
the  road  from  the  direction  of  the  town  was  now  un- 
mistakably audible. 

"The  jug  for  mine,  I  guess,"  observed  the  young 
man  to  the  moon.  "Probably  a  file  of  native  constabu- 
lary in  bare  feet  that  you  can't  hear  bringing  up  the 
rear!" 

The  footsteps  drew  nearer,  until,  still  some  distance 
away,  the  white-clad  figure  of  a  man  showed  upon  the 
tree-fringed  road.  The  sprawled  figure  on  the  beach 
made  no  effort  toward  flight,  and  less  toward  conceal- 
ment. With  a  sort  of  studied  insolence  injected  into 
his  challenge,  he  stuck  another  cigarette  between  his 


HIS  STORY  21 

lips  and  deliberately  allowed  full  play  to  the  flare  of 
the  match. 

The  footsteps  halted  abruptly.  Then,  in  another 
moment,  they  crunched  upon  the  sand,  and  a  tall  man, 
with  thin,  swarthy  face,  a  man  of  perhaps  forty  or 
forty-five,  who  picked  assiduously  at  his  teeth  with  a 
quill  toothpick,  stood  over  the  recumbent  figure. 

"Found  you,  have  I?"  he  grunted  complacently. 

"If  you  like  to  put  it  that  way,"  said  the  young  man 
indifferently.  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  again, 
and  stared  toward  the  road.  "Where's  the  army?" 
he  inquired. 

The  tall  man  allowed  the  point  of  the  quill  tooth- 
pick to  flex  and  strike  back  against  his  teeth.  The 
sound  was  distinctive.  Tck!  He  ignored  the  ques- 
tion. 

"When  the  mate  came  out  of  dreamland,"  he  said, 
"he  lowered  a  boat  and  came  ashore  to  lay  a  complaint 
against  you." 

"I  can't  say  I'm  surprised,"  admitted  the  young  man. 
"I  suppose  I  am  to  go  with  you  quietly  and  make  no 
trouble  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  me — I  believe  that's 
the  usual  formula,  isn't  it?" 

The  man  with  the  quill  toothpick  sat  down  on  the 
sand.  He  appeared  to  be  absorbed  for  a  moment  in  a 
contemplation  of  his  surroundings. 

"These  tropic  nights  are  wonderful,  aren't  they? 
Kind  of  get  you."  He  plied  the  quill  toothpick  indus- 
triously. "I'm  a  passenger  on  the  steamer,  and  I  came 
ashore  with  the  mate.  He's  gone  back — without  lay- 
ing the  complaint.  There's  always  a  way  of  fixing 
things — even  injured  feelings.  One  of  the  native 
boat's-crew  said  he  knew  where  you  were  to  be  found. 


22  PAWNED 

He's  over  there."  He  jerked  his  head  in  the  direction 
of  the  road. 

The  young  man  sat  bolt  upright. 

"I  don't  get  you,"  he  said  slowly,  "except  that  you 
are  evidently  not  personifying  the  majesty  of  the  law. 
What's  the  idea?" 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  "I  had  three  reasons  for 
coming.  The  first  was  that  I  thought  I  recognized 
you  yesterday  when  they  threw  you  off  the  steamer, 
and  was  sure  of  it  to-night  when — I  am  a  light  sleeper 
— I  came  out  on  the  upper  deck  at  the  sound  of  the 
row  and  saw  you  take  your  departure  from  the  vessel 
for  the  second  time." 

"I  had  no  idea,"  said  the  young  man  caustically, 
"that  I  was  so  well  known.  Are  you  quite  sure  you 
haven't  made  a  mistake?" 

"Quite!"  asserted  the  other  composedly.  "Of 
course,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  what  your  present 
name  is — you  may  have  considered  a  change  beneficial 
— so  I  will  not  presume  in  that  respect.  But  you  are, 
or  were,  a  resident  of  San  Francisco.  You  were  very 
nice  people  there.  I  have  no  knowledge  of  your 
mother,  except  that  I  understand  she  died  in  your  in- 
fancy. A  few  years  ago  your  father  died  and  left  you, 
not  a  fortune,  but  quite  a  moderate  amount  of  money. 
I  believe  the  pulpits  designate  it  as  a  'besetting  sin.' 
You  had  one — gambling.  The  result  was  that  you 
traveled  the  road  a  great  many  other  young  men  have 
traveled;  the  only  difference  being  that,  in  so  far  as 
I  am  competent  to  speak,  you  hold  the  belt  for  speed 
and  all-round  proficiency.  You  went  utterly,  com- 
pletely and  whole-heartedly  to  hell."  The  tall  man 
became  absorbed  again  in  his  surroundings.  "And  I 


HIS  STORY  23 

take  it,"  he  said  presently,  "that  in  spite  of  the  won- 
ders of  a  tropic  night,  you  are  still  there." 

The  young  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  have  put  it  very  delicately,"  he  said,  with  a 
grim  smile.  "I'm  sorry,  but  I  am  obliged  to  confess 
that  the  recognition  isn't  mutual.  Would  you  mind 
telling  me  who  you  are?" 

"We'll  get  to  that  in  due  course,"  said  the  other. 
"My  second  reason  was  that  it  appeared  to  me  to  be 
logical  to  suppose  that,  having  once  been  the  bona  fide 
article,  you  could  readily  disguise  yourself  as  a  gentle- 
man again,  and  your  interpretation  of  the  role  would 
be  beyond  suspicion  or " 

"By  God!"  The  welt  across  the  young  man's  face 
grew  suddenly  white,  as  though  the  blood  had  fled 
from  it  to  suffuse  his  temples.  He  half  rose,  staring 
levelly  into  the  other's  eyes. 

The  tall  man  apparently  was  quite  undisturbed. 

"And  the  third  reason  is  that  I  have  been  looking 
for  just  such  a — there  really  isn't  any  other  word — 
gentleman,  providing  he  was  possessed  of  another  and 
very  essential  characteristic.  You  possess  that  charac- 
teristic in  a  most  marked  degree.  Your  actions  to- 
night are  unmistakable  evidence  that  you  have  nerve." 

"It  strikes  me  that  you've  got  a  little  of  it  yourself," 
observed  the  young  man  evenly. 

The  quill  toothpick  under  the  adroit  guidance  of  his 
tongue  traveled  from  the  left-  to  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  other's  mouth. 

"It  is  equally  as  essential  to  me,"  he  said  dryly. 
"You  appear  to  fill  the  bill;  but  there  is  always  the 
possibility  of  a  fly  in  the  ointment;  complications— er 
— unpleasant  complications,  perhaps,  you  know,  that 


24  PAWNED 

might  have  arisen  since  you  left  San  Francisco,  and 
that  might — er — complicate  matters." 

The  young  man  relapsed  into  a  recumbent  position 
upon  the  sand,  his  hands  clasped  under  his  head  again, 
and  in  his  turn  appeared  to  be  absorbed  in  the  beauty 
of  the  night. 

"Moon-madness!"  he  murmured  pityingly. 

"A  myth!"  said  the  tall  man  promptly.  "Would 
you  mind  sketching  in  roughly  the  details  of  your  inter- 
esting career  since  you  left  the  haunts  of  the  aristoc- 
racy?" 

"I  don't  see  any  reason  why  I  should."  The  young 
man  yawned. 

"Do  you  see  any  reason  why  you  shouldn't?"  in- 
quired the  other  composedly. 

"None,"  said  the  young  man,  "except  that  the 
steamer  sails  at  daybreak,  and  I  should  never  forgive 
myself  if  you  were  left  behind." 

"Nor  forgive  yourself,  perhaps,  if  you  failed  to  sail 
on  her  as  a  first-class  passenger,"  said  the  tall  man 
quietly. 

"What?"  ejaculated  the  young  man  sharply. 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  depends  on  the  story,"  he  said. 

"I — I  don't  understand."  The  young  man  frowned. 
"There's  a  chance  for  me  to  get  aboard  the  mail 
boat?" 

"It  depends  on  the  story,"  said  the  other  again. 

"Moon-mad!"  murmured  the  young  man  once  more, 
after  a  moment's  silence.  "But  it's  cheap  at  the  price, 
for  it's  not  much  of  a  story.  Beginning  where  you  left 
off  in  my  biography,  I  ducked  when  the  crash  came  in 
San  Francisco,  and  having  arrived  in  hell,  as  you  so 


HIS  STORY  25 

delicately  put  it,  I  started  out  to  explore.  Mr.  Dante 
had  it  right — there's  no  use  stopping  in  the  suburbs. 
I  lived  a  while  in  his  last  circle.  It's  too  bad  he  never 
knew  the  'Frisco  water-front;  it  would  have  fired  his 
imagination!  I'm  not  sure,  though,  but  Honolulu's 
got  a  little  on  'Frisco,  at  that  I  Luck  was  out.  I  was 
flat  on  my  back  when  I  got  a  chance  to  work  my  way 
out  to  Honolulu.  One  place  was  as  good  as  another 
by  then." 

The  young  man  lit  a  cigarette,  and  stared  at  the 
glowing  tip  reminiscently  with  his  gray  eyes. 

"You  said  something  about  gambling,"  he  went  on; 
"but  you  didn't  say  enough.  It's  a  disease,  a  fever 
that  sets  your  blood  on  fire,  and  makes  your  life  kind 
of  delirious,  I  guess — if  you  get  it  chronic.  I  guess  I 
was  born  with  it.  I  remember  when  I  was  a  kid  I — but 
I  forgot,  pardon  me,  the  mail  boat  sails  at  daybreak." 

"Go  as  far  as  you  like,"  said  the  tall  man,  picking 
at  his  teeth  with  the  quill  toothpick. 

The  young  man  shook  his  head. 

"Honolulu  is  the  next  stopping  place,"  he  said.  "On 
the  way  out  I  picked  up  a  few  odd  dollars  from  my 
fellow-members  of  the  crew,  and " 

"Tck!"    It  was  the  quill  toothpick. 

The  young  man's  eyes  narrowed,  and  his  jaw  set 
challengingly. 

"Whatever  else  I've  done,"  he  stated  in  a  signifi- 
cant monotone,  "I've  never  played  crooked.  It  was 
on  the  level." 

"Of  course,"  agreed  the  tall  man  hastily. 

"I  sat  in  with  the  only  stakes  I  had,"  said  the  young 
man,  still  monotonously.  "A  bit  of  tobacco,  a  rather 


26  PAWNED 

good  knife  that  I've  got  yet,  and  a  belt  that  some  one 
took  a  fancy  to  as  being  worth  half  a  dollar." 

"Certainly!  Of  course!"  reiterated  the  tall  man  in 
haste. 

The  quill  toothpick  was  silent. 

"A  pal  of  mine,  one  of  the  stokers,  said  he  knew  of 
a  good  place  to  play  in  Honolulu  where  there  was  a 
square  deal,"  continued  the  young  man;  "so,  a  night 
or  so  after  we  reached  there,  we  got  shore  leave  and 
started  off.  Perhaps  you  know  that  part  of  Honolulu. 
I  don't.  I  didn't  see  much  of  it.  I  know  there's  some 
queer  dumps,  and  queer  doings,  and  the  scum  of  every 
nationality  under  the  sun  to  run  up  against.  And  I 
know  it  was  a  queer  place  my  mate  steered  me  into. 
It  was  faro.  The  box  was  run  by  an  old  Chinaman 
who  looked  as  though  he  were  trying  to  impersonate 
one  of  his  ancestors,  he  was  so  old.  My  mate  and  I 
formed  the  English-speaking  community.  There  were 
a  Jap  or  two,  and  a  couple  of  pleasant-looking  cut- 
throats who  cursed  in  Spanish,  and  a  Chink  lying  on  a 
bunk  rolling  his  pill.  Oh,  yes,  the  place  stunk !  Every 
once  in  a  while  the  door  opened  and  some  other  God- 
forsaken piece  of  refuse  drifted  in.  By  midnight  we 
had  a  full  house  of  pretty  bad  stuff. 

"It  ended  in  a  row,  of  course.  Some  fool  of  a  tout 
came  in  chaperoning  a  party  of  three  men,  who  were 
out  to  see  the  sights;  they  were  passengers,  I  found 
out  later,  from  one  of  the  ships  in  port.  I  don't  know 
what  started  the  rumpus;  some  private  feud,  I  guess. 
The  first  thing  I  knew  one  of  the  Spaniards  had  a  knife 
out  and  had  jumped  for  the  tout.  It  was  a  free-for- 
all  in  a  minute.  I  saw  the  tout  go  down,  and  he  didn't 
look  good,  and  the  place  suddenly  struck  me  as  a 


HIS  STORY  27 

mighty  unhealthy  place  to  be  found  in  on  that  account. 
The  stoker  and  I  started  to  fight  our  way  through  the 
jam  to  the  door.  There  was  a  row  infernal.  I  guess 
you  could  have  heard  it  a  mile  away.  Anyway,  before 
we  could  break  from  the  clinches,  as  it  were,  the  police 
were  fighting  their  way  in  just  as  eagerly  as  we  were 
fighting  our  way  out. 

"I  didn't  like  the  sight  of  that  tout  lying  on  the 
floor,  or  the  thought  of  what  might  happen  in  the 
police  court  the  next  morning  if  I  were  one  of  the 
crowd  to  adorn  the  dock.  And  things  weren't  going 
very  well.  The  police  were  streaming  in  through  the 
doorway.  And  then  I  caught  sight  of  something  I 
hadn't  seen  before  because  it  had  previously  been  hid- 
den by  a  big  Chinese  screen — one  of  those  iron-shut- 
tered windows  they  seem  so  fond  of  down  there. 
Things  weren't  very  rosy  just  at  that  moment  because 
about  the  worst  hell-cat  scramble  on  record  was  being 
made  a  little  worse  by  some  cheerful  maniac  starting 
a  bit  of  revolver  practice,  but  I  remember  that  I 
couldn't  help  laughing  to  save  my  soul.  In  the  melee 
one  of  the  folding  wings  of  the  screen  had  suddenly 
doubled  up,  and,  besides  the  window,  I  saw  hiding  be- 
hind there  for  dear  life,  his  face  pasty-white  with 
terror,  a  very  courageous  gentleman — one  of  the 
rubbernecks  who  had  come  in  with  the  tout.  He  was 
too  scared,  I  imagine,  even  to  have  the  thought  of 
tackling  such  formidable  things  as  iron  shutters  enter 
his  head.  I  yelled  to  the  stoker  to  get  them  open,  and 
tried  to  form  a  sort  of  rear  guard  for  him  while  he 
did  it.  Then  I  heard  them  creak  on  their  hinges,  and 
heard  him  shout.  I  made  a  dash  for  it,  but  I  wasn't 
quite  quick  enough.  One  of  the  policemen  grabbed 


28  PAWNED 

me,  but  I  was  playing  in  luck  then.  I  got  in  a  fortu- 
nate swing  and  he  went  down  for  the  count  I  remem- 
ber toppling  the  screen  and  the  man  behind  it  over  on 
the  floor  as  I  jumped  sideways  for  the  window;  and  I 
remember  a  glimpse  of  his  terrorized  face,  his  eyes 
staring  at  me,  his  mouth  wide  open,  as  I  took  a  head- 
long dive  over  the  window  sill.  The  stoker  picked  me 
up,  and  we  started  on  the  run. 

"The  police  were  scrambling  through  the  window 
after  us.  I  didn't  need  to  be  told  that  there  wouldn't 
be  a  happy  time  ahead  if  I  were  caught.  Apart  from 
that  tout  who,  though  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
gave  the  affair  a  very  serious  aspect,  I  was  good  for 
the  limit  on  the  statute  books  for  resisting  arrest  in 
the  first  place,  and  for  knocking  out  an  officer  in  the 
second.  But  the  stoker  knew  his  way  about.  We  gave 
the  police  the  slip,  and  a  little  later  on  we  landed  up 
in  a  sailors'  boarding-house  run  by  a  one-eyed  cousin 
of  Satan,  known  as  Lascar  Joe.  We  lay  there  hidden 
while  the  tout  got  better;  and  the  Spanish  hidalgo  got 
sent  up  for  a  long  term  for  murderous  assault. 
Finally  Lascar  Joe  slipped  the  stoker  aboard  some 
ship;  and  a  week  or  so  later  he  slipped  me,  the  trans- 
fer being  made  in  the  night,  aboard  a  frowsy  tramp 
bound  for  New  Zealand." 

The  young  man  paused,  evidently  inviting  comment. 

"Go  on,"  prompted  the  man  with  the  quill  tooth- 
pick softly. 

"There  isn't  very  much  more,"  said  the  young  man. 
He  laughed  shortly.  "As  far  as  I  know  I'm  the  sole 
survivor  from  that  tramp.  She  never  got  to  New 
Zealand;  and  that's  how  I  got  here  to  Samoa.  She 
went  down  in  a  hurricane.  I  was  washed  ashore  on 


HIS  STORY  29 

one  of  this  group  of  islands  about  forty  or  fifty  miles 
from  here.  I  don't  know  much  about  the  details;  I 
was  past  knowing  anything  when  the  bit  of  wreckage 
on  which  I  had  lashed  myself  days  before  came  to  port. 
There  weren't  any — I  was  going  to  say  white  people 
on  the  island,  but  I'm  wrong  about  that.  The  Samo- 
ans  are  about  the  whitest  people  on  God's  green  earth. 
I  found  that  out.  There  were  only  natives  on  that 
island.  I  lived  with  them  for  about  two -months,  and 
I  got  to  be  pretty  friendly  with  them,  especially  the 
old  fellow  who  originally  picked  me  up  half  drowned 
and  unconscious  on  the  beach,  and  who  took  me  into 
the  bosom  of  his  family.  Then  the  missionary  boat 
came  along,  and  I  came  back  with  it  to  Apia  here." 

The  young  man  laughed  again  suddenly,  a  jarring 
note  in  his  mirth. 

"I  don't  suppose  you've  heard  that  original  remark 
about  the  world  being  such  a  small  place  after  all! 
I  figured  that  back  here  in  Apia  a  shipwrecked  and 
destitute  white  man  would  get  the  glad  hand  and  at 
least  a  chance  to  earn  his  stake.  Maybe  he  would 
ordinarily;  but  I  didn't.  I  hadn't  said  anything  to  the 
missionary  about  that  Honolulu  escapade,  and  I  was 
keeping  it  dark  when  I  got  here  and  started  to  tell  the 
shipwreck  end  of  my  story  over  again.  Queer,  isn't  it? 
Lined  up  in  about  the  first  audience  I  had  was  the 
gentleman  with  the  pasty  face  that  I  had  toppled  over 
with  the  screen  in  the  old  Chink's  faro  dump.  He  was 
one  of  the  big  guns  here,  and  had  been  away  on  a 
pleasure  trip,  and  Honolulu  had  been  on  his  itinerary. 
That  settled  it.  The  missionary  chap  spoke  up  a  bit 
for  me,  I'll  give  him  credit  for  that,  though  I  had  a 
hunch  he  was  going  to  use  that  play  as  an  opening 


30  PAWNED 

wedge  in  an  effort  to  reform  me  later  on.  But  I  had 
my  fingers  crossed.  The  whites  here  turned  their  backs 
on  me,  and  I  turned  my  back  on  the  missionary.  That's 
about  all  there  was  to  it.  That  was  about  two  weeks 
ago,  and  for  those  two  weeks  I've  lived  in  another  of 
Mr.  Dante's  delightful  circles." 

He  sat  suddenly  upright,  a  clenched  fist  flung  out- 
ward. 

"Not  a  cent  I  Not  a  damned  sou-marquee!  Noth- 
ing but  this  torn  shirt,  and  what's  left  of  these  cotton 
pants!  Hell!" 

He  lay  back  on  the  sand  quite  as  suddenly  again, 
and  fell  to  laughing  softly. 

"Tck!"     It  was  the  quill  toothpick. 

"But  at  that,"  said  the  young  man,  "I'm  not  sure 
you  could  call  me  a  cynic,  though  the  more  I  see  of 
my  own  breed  as  compared  with  the  so-called  heathen 
the  less  I  think  of — my  own  breed!  I  still  had  a  card 
up  my  sleeve.  I  had  a  letter  of  introduction  to  a  real 
gentleman  and  landed  proprietor  here.  His  name  was 
Nanu,  and  he  gave  me  his  house  to  live  in,  and  made 
me  free  of  his  taro  and  his  breadfruit  and  all  his 
worldly  possessions ;  and  it  was  the  old  native  who  took 
care  of  me  on  the  other  island  that  gave  me  the  letter. 
It  was  a  queer  sort  of  letter,  too — but  never  mind  that 
now. 

"Splendid  isolation!  That's  me  for  the  last  two 
weeks  as  a  cross  between  a  pariah  and  a  mangy  cur! 
What  amazes  me  most  is  myself.  The  gentleman  of 
the  Chinese  screen  is  still  in  the  land  of  the  living  and 
walking  blithely  around.  Funny,  isn't  it?  That's  one 
reason  I  was  crazy  to  get  away — before  anything 
happened  to  him."  The  tanned  fist  closed  fiercely  over 


HIS  STORY  31 

a  handful  of  sand,  then  opened  and  allowed  the  grains 
to  trickle  slowly  through  the  fingers,  and  its  owner 
laughed  softly  again.  "I've  lived  through  hell  here  in 
those  two  weeks.  I  guess  we're  only  built  to  stand  so 
much.  I  was  about  at  the  end  of  my  rope  when  the 
mail  steamer  put  in  yesterday.  I  hope  I  haven't  ideal- 
ized my  sojourn  here  in  a  way  that  would  cause  you  to 
minimize  my  necessity  for  getting  away,  no  matter  to 
where  or  by  what  means!  Nanu  and  I  went  out  to  the 
ship  in  his  outrigger.  Perhaps  I  would  have  had  bet- 
ter luck  if  I  had  run  into  any  other  than  the  particular 
mate  I  did.  I  don't  know.  I  offered  to  work  my  pass- 
age. Perhaps  my  fame  had  already  gone  abroad — or 
aboard.  He  invited  me  to  make  another  excursion  into 
Dante-land.  But  when  he  turned  his  back  on  me  I 
slipped  below,  and  tucked  myself  in  behind  some  of 
the  copra  sacks  they  were  loading.  Once  the  steamer 
was  away  I  was  away  with  her,  and  I  was  willing  to 
take  what  was  coming.  But  I  didn't  get  a  chance. 
I  guess  the  mate  was  sharper  than  I  gave  him  credit 
for.  After  about  four  hours  of  heat  and  stink  down 
there  below  decks  that  I  had  to  grit  my  teeth  to  stand, 
he  hauled  me  out  as  though  he  knew  I  had  been  there 
all  the  time.  I  was  thrown  off  the  steamer. 

"But  I  wasn't  through.  Steamers  do  not  call  here 
every  day.  I  wonder  if  you'll  know  what  I  mean  when 
I  say  I  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  of  myself  and  what 
might  happen  if  I  had  to  stick  it  out  much  longer? 
That  mangy  cur  I  spoke  of  had  me  lashed  to  the  mast 
from  a  social  standpoint.  I  tried  it  again — to-night. 
Nanu  fixed  it  for  me  with  one  of  the  crew  to  hang  that 
rope  over  the  side,  and — well,  I  believe  you  said  you 
had  seen  what  happened.  I  believe  you  said,  too,  that 


32  PAWNED 

a  chance  still  existed  of  my  sailing  with  the  mail  boat, 
depending  upon  my  story."  He  laughed  a  little  rau- 
cously. "I  hope  it's  been  interesting  enough  to  bail 
me  out;  anyway,  that's  all  of  it." 

The  tall  man  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"Yes,"  he  said  at  last;  "I  am  quite  satisfied. 
Dressed  as  a  gentleman,  with  money  in  your  pockets, 
and  such  other  details  as  go  with  the  role,  you  would 
never  be  associated  with  that  affair  in  Honolulu.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  your  share  in  it  was  not  so  serious  that 
the  police  would  dog  you  all  over  the  world  on  account 
of  it.  In  other  words,  and  what  really  interests  me, 
is  that  you  are  not  what  is  commonly  designated  as  a 
'wanted'  man.  Yes,  I  may  say  I  am  thoroughly  sat- 
isfied." 

The  young  man  yawned  and  stretched  himself. 

"I'm  delighted  to  hear  it.  I  haven't  any  packing  to 
do.  Shall  we  stroll  back  to  the  ship?" 

"I  hope  so."  The  quill  toothpick  was  busy  again. 
"The  decision  rests  with  you.  I  am  not  a  philan- 
thropist. I  am  about  to  offer  you  a  situation — to  fill 
which  I  have  been  searching  a  good  many  years  to  find 
some  one  who  had  the  necessary  qualifications.  I  am 
satisfied  you  are  that  man.  You  do  not  know  me ;  you 
do  not  know  my  name,  and  though  you  have  already 
asked  what  it  is,  I  shall  still  withhold  that  information 
until  your  decision  has  been  given.  If  you  agree,  I 
will  here  and  now  sign  a  contract  with  you  to  which  we 
will  both  affix  our  bona  fide  signatures;  if  you  refuse, 
we  will  shake  hands  and  part  as  friends  and  strangers 
who  have  been — shall  we  use  your  expression? — moon- 
mad  under  the  influence  of  the  wonders  of  a  tropic 
night." 


HIS  STORY  33 

"Something  tells  me,"  said  the  young  man  softly, 
"that  the  situation  is  not  an  ordinary  one." 

"And  you  are  right,"  replied  the  other  quietly.  "It 
is  not  only  not  ordinary,  but  is,  I  think  I  may  safely 
say,  absolutely  unique  and  without  its  counterpart.  I 
might  mention  in  passing  that  I  am  not  in  particularly 
good  health,  and  the  sea  voyage  I  was  ordered  to  take 
explains  my  presence  here.  I  am  the  sole  owner  of  one 
of  the  largest,  if  not  the  largest,  business  enterprises 
in  America;  certainly  its  turn-over,  at  least,  is  beyond 
question  the  biggest  on  the  American  continent.  I  have 
establishments  in  every  city  of  any  size  in  both  the 
United  States  and  Canada — and  even  in  Mexico.  The 
situation  I  offer  you  is  that  of  my  confidential  repre- 
sentative. No  connection  whatever  will  be  known  to 
exist  between  us ;  your  title  will  be  that  of  a  gentleman 
of  leisure — but  your  duties  will  be  more  arduous.  I 
regret  to  say  that  in  many  cases  I  fear  my  local  man- 
agers are  not — er — making  accurate  returns  to  me, 
and  they  are  very  hard  to  check  up.  I  would  require 
you  to  travel  from  place  to  place  as  a  sort  of,  say, 
secret  inspector  of  branches,  and  furnish  me  with  the 
inside  information  from  the  lack  of  which  my  business 
at  present,  I  am  afraid,  is  suffering  severely." 

"And  that  business?"  The  young  man  had  raised 
himself  to  his  elbow  on  the  sand. 

"The  one  that  is  nearest  to  your  heart,"  said  the 
tall  man  calmly.  "Gambling." 

The  young  man  leaned  slowly  forward,  staring  at  the 
other. 

"I  wonder  if  I  quite  get  you?"  he  said. 

"I  am  sure  you  do."  The  tall  man  smiled.  "My 
business  is  a  chain  of  select  and  exclusive  gambling 


34  PAWNED 

houses  where  only  high  play  is  indulged  in,  and  whose 
clientele  is  the  richest  in  the  land." 

The  young  man  rose  to  his  feet,  walked  a  few  steps 
away  along  the  beach,  and  came  back  again. 

"You're  devilishly  complimentary!"  he  flung  out, 
with  a  short  laugh.  "As  I  understand  it,  then,  the  price 
I  am  to  pay  for  getting  away  from  here  is  the  pawning 
of  my  soul?" 

"Have  you  anything  else  to  pawn?"  inquired  the 
other — and  the  quill  toothpick  punctuated  the  remark: 
"Tck!" 

"No,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  twisted  smile. 
"And  I'm  not  sure  I've  got  that  left!  I  am  beginning 
to  have  a  suspicion  that  it  was  in  your  'branch'  at  San 
Francisco  that  I  lost  my  money." 

"You  did,"  said  the  other  coolly.  "That  is  how  I 
came  to  know  you.  Though  not  personally  in  evidence 
in  the  'house'  itself,  San  Francisco  is  my  home,  and  my 
Information  as  to  what  goes  on  there  at  least  is  fairly 
accurate." 

The  young  man  resumed  his  pacing  up  and  down 
the  sand. 

"And  I  might  add,"  said  the  tall  man  after  a  mo- 
ment, "that  from  a  point  of  ethics  I  see  little  difference 
in  the  moral  status  between  one  who  comes  to  gamble 
and  one  who  furnishes  the  other  with  the  opportunity 
to  do  so.  You  are  perhaps  hesitating  to  take  the  hur- 
dle on  that  account?" 

"Moral  status!"  exclaimed  the  young  man  sharply. 
He  halted  abruptly  before  the  other.  "No — at  least 
I  am  not  a  hypocrite!  What  right  have  I  to  quarrel 
with  moral  status?" 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  other;  "I  will  go  far- 


HIS  STORY  35 

ther.  I  will  give  you  everything  in  life  that  you  desire. 
You  will  live  as  a  gentleman  of  wealth  surrounded  by 
every  luxury  that  money  can  procure,  for  that  is  your 
role.  You  may  gamble  to  your  heart's  content,  ten, 
twenty,  fifty  thousand  a  night — in  my  houses.  You 
will  travel  the  length  and  breadth  of  America.  I  will 
pay  every  expense.  There  is  nothing  that  you  may  not 
have,  nothing  that  you  may  not  do." 

The  young  man  was  silent  for  a  full  minute;  then, 
with  his  hands  dug  in  his  pockets,  he  fell  to  whistling 
under  his  breath  very  softly — but  very  deliberately. 

An  almost  sinister  smile  spread  over  the  tall  man's 
lips  as  he  listened. 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken,"  he  observed  dryly,  "that 
is  the  aria  from  Faust." 

"Yes,"  said  the  young  man — and  stared  the  other 
in  the  eye.  "It  is  the  aria  from  Faust." 

The  tall  man  nodded — but  now  his  lips  were 
straight. 

"I  accept  the  role  of  Mephistopheles,  then,"  he  said 
softly.  "Doctor  Faustus,  you  know,  signed  the  bond." 

The  young  man  squatted  on  the  sand  again.  His 
face  was  curiously  white ;  only  the  ugly  welt,  dull  red, 
across  his  cheeks,  like  the  mark  of  some  strange 
branding-iron,  held  color. 

"Then,  draw  it!"  he  said  shortly.  "And be  damned 
to  you !" 

The  tall  man  took  a  notebook  and  a  fountain  pen 
from  his  pocket.  He  wrote  rapidly,  tore  out  the  leaf, 
and  on  a  second  leaf  made  a  copy  of  the  first.  This, 
too,  he  tore  out. 

"I  will  read  it,"  he  said.  "You  will  observe  that 
no  names  are  mentioned;  that  I  have  still  reserved  the 


36  PAWNED 

privilege  of  keeping  my  identity  in  abeyance  until  the 
document  is  signed.  This  is  what  I  have  written: 
For  good  and  valid  consideration  the  second  signatory 
to  this  contract  hereby  enters  unreservedly  Into  the 
employ  of  the  first  signatory  for  a  period  which  shall 
Include  the  lifetime  of  one  or  other  of  the  undersigned, 
or  until  such  time  as  this  agreement  may  be  dissolved 
either  by  mutual  consent  or  at  the  will  of  the  first 
signatory  alone.  And  the  first  signatory  to  this  con- 
tract agrees  to  maintain  the  second  signatory  In  a  sta- 
tion In  life  commensurate  with  that  of  a  gentleman  of 
wealth  Irrespective  of  expense,  and  further  to  pay  to 
the  second  signatory  as  a  stated  salary  the  sum  of  one 
thousand  dollars  a  month."  He  looked  up.  "Shall 
I  sign?" 

"Body  and  soul,"  murmured  the  young  man.  He 
appeared  to  be  fascinated  with  the  restless  movement 
of  the  quill  toothpick  in  the  other's  mouth.  "Have  you 
another  toothpick  you  could  let  me  have?"  he  inquired 
casually. 

The  tall  man  mechanically  thrust  his  fingers  into  his 
vest  pocket;  and  then,  as  though  but  suddenly  struck 
with  the  irrelevancy,  and  perhaps  facetiousness,  of  the 
request,  frowned  as  he  found  himself  handing  over  the 
article  in  question. 

"Shall  I  sign?"  His  tone  was  sterner.  "It  is  under- 
stood that  the  signatures  are  to  be  bona  fide  and " 

"Yes,  sign  it.  It  is  quite  understood."  The  young 
man  spoke  without  looking  up.  He  seemed  to  be 
engrossed  in  carefully  slitting  the  point  of  the  quill 
toothpick  he  had  acquired  with  his  knife. 

The  other  signed  both  sheets  from  the  notebook. 

The  young  man  accepted  the  two  slips  of  paper,  but 


HIS  STORY  37 

refused  the  proffered  fountain  pen.  In  the  moonlight 
he  read  the  other's  signature:  Gilbert  Larmon.  His 
lips  tightened  a  little.  It  was  a  big  name  in  San 
Francisco,  a  name  of  power.  Few  dreamed  perhaps 
where  the  sinews  of  that  power  came  from!  He  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  small  bottle,  uncorked  it,  dipped  in 
the  quill  toothpick,  and  with  his  improvised  pen  wrote 
with  a  rasping,  spluttering  noise  beneath  the  other's 
signature  on  each  of  the  two  slips  of  paper.  One  of 
these  slips  he  returned  to  the  other — but  beneath  the 
tall  man's  signature  there  was  no  mark  of  any  kind 
whatever. 

Through  narrowing  eyes  the  tall  man  had  been 
watching,  and  now  his  face  darkened  ominously,  and 
there  was  something  of  deadly  coolness  in  his  voice  as 
he  spoke. 

"What  tomfoolery  is  this?"  he  demanded  evenly. 

"No;  it's  quite  all  right,"  said  the  young  man 
placidly.  "Just  a  whim  of  mine.  I  can't  seem  to  get 
that  Doctor  Faustus  thing  out  of  my  head.  According 
to  the  story,  I  think,  he  signed  in  a  drop  of  blood — 
and  I  thought  I'd  carry  a  sort  of  analogy  along  a  bit. 
That  stuff's  all  right.  I  got  it  from  my  old  native 
friend  on  that  island  I  was  telling  you  about.  It's 
what  my  letter  of  introduction  to  Nanu  was  written, 
with.  And — well,  at  least,  I  guess  it  stands  for  the 
drop  of  blood,  all  right  I  Take  it  down  there  to  the 
shore  and  dip  that  part  of  the  paper  in  the  salt  water." 

The  tall  man  made  no  answer.  For  a  moment  he 
remained  staring  with  grim-set  features  at  the  other, 
then  he  got  up,  walked  sharply  to  the  water's  edge, 
and,  bending  down,  moistened  the  lower  portion  of  the 
paper.  He  held  it  up  to  the  moonlight.  Heavy  black 


38  PAWNED 

letters  were  slowly  taking  form  just  beneath  his  own 
signature.  Presently  he  walked  back  up  the  beach  to 
the  young  man,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Let  us  get  back  to  the  ship — John  Bruce,"  he  said. 


THE  BOOK  ITSELF 


THEIR  STORY 


ALADDIN'S  LAMP 

JOHN  BRUCE,  stretched  at  full  length  on  a 
luxurious  divan  in  the  most  sumptuous  apartment 
of  the  Bayne-Miloy,  New  York's  newest  and 
most  pretentious  hostelry,  rose  suddenly  to  his  feet 
and  switched  off  the  lights.  The  same  impulse  carried 
him  in  a  few  strides  to  the  window.  The  night  was 
still,  and  the  moon  rode  high  and  full.  It  was  the 
same  moon  that,  three  months  ago,  he  had  stared  at 
from  the  flat  of  his  back  on  the  beach  at  Apia.  A 
smile,  curiously  tight,  and  yet  curiously  whimsical, 
touched  his  lips.  If  it  had  been  "moon-madness"  that 
had  fallen  upon  the  gambler  king  and  himself  that 
night,  it  had  been  a  madness  that  was  strangely  free 
in  its  development  from  hallucination !  That  diagnosis 
no  longer  held.  It  would  be  much  more  apposite  to 
lay  it  bluntly  to  the  door  of — Mephistopheles !  From 
the  moment  he  had  boarded  the  mail  steamer  he  had 
lived  as  a  man  possessed  of  unlimited  wealth,  as  a  man 
with  unlimited  funds  always  in  his  possession  or  at  his 
instant  command. 

He  whistled  softly.     It  was,  though,  if  not  moon- 
madness,  perhaps  the  moon,  serene  and  full  up  there 

41 


42  PAWNED 

as  it  had  been  that  other  night,  which  he  had  been 
watching  from  the  divan  a  few  moments  before,  that 
had  sent  his  mind  scurrying  backward  over  those  inter- 
vening months.  And  yet,  perhaps  not ;  for  there  would 
come  often  enough,  as  now,  moments  of  mind  groping, 
yes,  even  the  sense  of  hallucination,  when  he  was  not 
quite  sure  but  that  a  certain  bubble,  floating  at  one 
moment  in  dazzlingly  iridescent  beauty  before  his  eyes, 
would  dissolve  the  next  into  blank  nothingness, 

and Well,  what  would  it  be  then?  Another 

beach  at  some  Apia,  until  another  Mephistopheles,  in 
some  other  guise,  came  to  play  up  against  his  role  of 
Doctor  Faustus  again? 

He  looked  sharply  behind  him  around  the  darkened 
room,  whose  darkness  did  not  hide  its  luxury.  His 
shoulder  brushed  the  heavy  silken  portiere  at  his  side ; 
his  fingers  touched  a  roll  of  banknotes  in  his  pocket, 
a  generous  roll,  whose  individual  units  were  of  denom- 
inations more  generous  still.  These  were  realities! 

Mephistopheles  at  play!  He  had  left  Larmon  at 
Suva,  Fiji.  Thereafter,  their  ways  and  their  lives  lay 
apart — outwardly.  Actually,  even  here  in  New  York 
with  the  continent  between  them,  for  Larmon  had 
resumed  his  life  in  which  he  played  the  role  of  a 
benevolent  and  retired  man  of  wealth  in  San  Francisco, 
they  were  in  constant  and  extremely  intimate  touch 
with  each  other. 

A  modern  Mephistopheles  I  Two  men  only  in  the 
world  knew  Gilbert  Larmon  for  what  he  was!  One 
other  besides  himself!  And  that  other  was  a  man 
named  Maldeck,  Peter  Maldeck.  But  only  one  man 
knew  him,  John  Bruce,  in  his  new  role,  and  that  was 
Gilbert  Larmon.  Maldeck  was  the  manager  of  the 


ALADDIN'S  LAMP  43 

entire  ring  of  gambling  houses,  and  likewise  the  clear- 
ing house  through  which  the  profits  flowed  into 
Larmon's  coffers ;  but  to  Maldeck,  he,  John  Bruce,  was 
exactly  what  he  appeared  to  be  to  the  world  at  large, 
and  to  the  local  managers  of  the  gambling  houses  in 
particular — a  millionaire  plunger  to  whom  gambling 
was  as  the  breath  of  life.  The  "inspector  of  branches" 
dealt  with  Gilbert  Larmon  alone,  and  dealt  confi- 
dentially and  secretively  over  Maldeck's  head — even 
that  invisible  writing  fluid  supplied  by  the  old  Samoan 
Islander  playing  its  part  when  found  necessary,  for  it 
had  been  agreed  between  Larmon  and  himself  that 
even  the  most  innocent  appearing  document  received 
from  him,  John  Bruce,  should  be  subjected  to  the  salt 
water  test;  and  he  had,  indeed,  already  used  it  in  sev- 
eral of  the  especially  confidential  reports  that  he  had 
sent  Larmon  on  some  of  the  branches. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  whole  scheme  of 
his  changed  existence  had  all  been  artfully  simple — 
and  superbly  efficient.  He  was  under  no  necessity  to 
explain  the  source  of  his  wealth  except  in  his  native 
city,  San  Francisco,  where  he  was  known — and  San 
Francisco  was  outside  his  jurisdiction.  With  both 
Larmon  and  Maldeck  making  that  their  headquarters, 
other  supervision  of  the  local  "branch"  was  superflu- 
ous ;  elsewhere,  his  wealth  was  inherited — that  was  all. 
So,  skipping  San  Francisco,  he  had  come  leisurely  cast- 
ward,  gambling  for  a  week  or  two  weeks,  as  the  case 
might  be,  in  the  various  cities,  following  as  guidance 
apparently  but  the  whim  of  his  supposedly  roue  inclina- 
tions, and  he  had  lost  a  lot  of  money — which  would 
eventually  find  its  way  back  to  its  original  source  in 
the  pockets  of  Gilbert  Larmon,  via  the  clearing  house 


44  PAWNED 

conducted  by  Peter  Maldeck.  It  was  extremely  simple 
— but,  equally,  extremely  systematic.  The  habitues  of 
every  branch  were  carefully  catalogued.  He  had  only 
— and  casually — to  make  the  acquaintance  of  one  of 
these  in  each  city,  and,  in  turn,  quite  inevitably,  would 
follow  an  introduction  to  the  local  "house" ;  and,  once 
introduced,  the  entree,  then  or  on  any  subsequent  visit 
to  that  city,  was  an  established  fact. 

John  Bruce  laughed  suddenly,  softly,  out  into  the 
night.  It  had  been  a  good  bargain  that  he  had  made 
with  Mephistopheles !  Wealth,  luxury,  everything  he 
desired  in  life  was  his.  On  the  trail  behind  him  in  the 
cities  he  had  already  visited  he  had  nightly  lost  or  won 
huge  sums  of  money  until  he  had  become  known  as  the 
millionaire  plunger.  It  was  quite  true  that,  in  as  much 
as  the  money,  whether  lost  or  won,  but  passed  from  his 
right-  to  his  left-hand  pocket — the  pockets  being  repre- 
sented by  one  Gilbert  Larmon — the  gambler  craving 
within  him  was  but  ill  served,  almost  in  a  sense  mocked; 
but  that  phase  of  it  had  sunk  into  insignificance.  The 
whole  idea  was  a  gigantic  gamble — a  gamble  with  life. 
The  whole  fabric  was  of  texture  most  precarious.  It 
exhilarated  him.  Excitement,  adventure,  yes,  even 
peril,  beckoned  alluringly  and  always  from  around  the 
corner  just  ahead.  He  stood  against  the  police;  he 
stood  a  very  excellent  chance  of  being  discovered  some 
morning  minus  his  life  if  the  men  he  was  set  to  watch, 
and  who  now  fawned  upon  him  and  treated  him  with 
awe  and  an  unholy  admiration,  should  get  an  inkling 
of  his  real  identity  and  his  real  purpose  in  their  houses ! 

He  yawned,  and  as  though  glorying  in  his  own 
strength  flexed  his  great  shoulders,  and  stretched  his 
arms  to  their  full  length  above  his  head.  God,  it  was 


ALADDIN'S  LAMP  45 

life !  It  made  of  him  a  superman.  He  had  no  human 
ties  to  bind  him;  no  restraint  to  know;  no  desire  that 
could  not  be  satiated.  The  past  was  wiped  away.  It 
was  like  some  reincarnation  in  which  he  stood  supreme 
above  his  fellow  men,  and  they  bowed  to  their  god. 
And  he  was  their  god.  And  if  he  but  nodded  approval 
they  would  lie,  and  cheat,  and  steal,  and  commit  mur- 
der in  their  greed  of  worship,  they  whose  souls  were  in 
pawn  to  their  god ! 

He  turned  suddenly  from  the  window,  switched  on 
the  lights,  drew  from  his  pocket  a  great  sum  of  money 
in  banknotes,  and  stood  staring  at  it.  There  were 
thousands  in  his  hand.  Thousands  and  thousands! 
Money !  The  one  universally-orthodox  god !  For  but 
one  of  these  pieces  of  paper  in  his  hand  he  could  com- 
mand what  he  would,  play  upon  human  passions  at  his 
whim,  and  like  puppets  on  a  stage  of  his  own  setting 
move  the  followers  of  the  Great  Creed,  that  were 
numbered  in  their  millions,  at  his  will!  It  was  only 
over  the  few  outcasts,  the  unbelievers,  that  he  held  no 
sway.  But  he  could  afford  to  ignore  the  minority! 
Was  he  not  indeed  a  god? 

And  it  had  cost  him  nothing.  Only  the  pawning  of 
his  soul;  and,  like  Faustus,  the  day  of  settlement  was 
afar  off.  Only  the  signing  of  a  bond  that  postulated  a 
denial  of  what  he  had  already  beforehand  held  in  light 
esteem — a  code  of  canting  morals.  It  was  well  such 
things  were  out  of  the  way!  Life  stretched  the  fuller, 
the  rosier,  the  more  red-blooded  before  him  on  that 
account.  He  was  well  content.  The  future  lured  him. 
Nor  was  it  money  alone.  There  was  the  spice  of 
adventure,  the  battle  of  wits,  hardly  inaugurated  yet, 
between  himself  and  those  whose  underground  meth- 


46  PAWNED 

ods   were    the    raison   d'etre   of   his   own   magically 
enhanced  circumstances. 

John  Bruce  replaced  the  money  in  his  pocket 
abruptly,  and  frowned.  That  was  something,  from 
still  another  standpoint,  which  he  could  not  afford  to 
lose  sight  of.  He  had  to  justify  his  job.  Gilbert 
Larmon  had  stated  that  he  was  not  a  philanthropist, 
and  it  was  written  in  the  bond  that  Larmon  could 
terminate  the  agreement  at  will.  Yes,  and  that  was 
queer,  too!  What  kind  of  a  man  was  Larmon?  He 
knew  Larmon,  as  Larmon  superficially  subjected  him- 
self to  inspection  and  speculation;  but  he  was  fully 
aware  that  he  did  not  know  Larmon  the  man.  There 
seemed  something  almost  sinister  in  its  inconsistency 
that  Larmon  should  at  one  and  the  same  time  reserve 
the  right  to  terminate  that  bond  at  will  while  his  very 
signature  upon  it  furnished  a  weapon  which,  if  he,  John 
Bruce,  chose  to  use  it,  placed  the  other  at  his  mercy. 
What  kind  of  a  man  was  Larmon?  No  fool,  no  weak- 
ling— that  was  certain.  And  yet  at  a  word  he,  John 
Bruce,  could  tear  the  other  from  the  pseudorighteous 
pedestal  upon  which  he  posed,  strip  the  other  naked  of 
the  garments  that  clothed  his  criminal  activities,  and 
destroy  utterly  the  carefully  reared  structure  of 
respectability  that  Larmon  had  built  up  around  him- 
self. It  might  be  very  true  that  he,  John  Bruce,  would 
never  use  such  a  weapon,  even  under  provocation;  but 
Larmon  could  not  be  sure  of  that.  How  then  did 
Larmon  reconcile  his  reservation  to  terminate  the  con- 
tract at  will  and  yet  furnish  his  co-signatory  with  the 
means  of  black-mailing  him  into  a  continuance  of  it? 
What  kind  of  a  man  was  Larmon?  What  would  he 
be  like  with  his  back  to  the  wall?  What  other  reserva- 


ALADDIN'S  LAMP  47 

tion  had  been  in  Larmon's  mind  when  he  had  drawn 
that  bond? 

And  then  a  queer  and  bitter  smile  came  to  John 
Bruce's  lips.  The  god  of  money!  Was  he  so  sure 
that  he  was  the  god  and  not  the  worshiper?  Was 
that  it?  Was  that  what  Larmon  counted  upon? — that 
only  a  fool  would  risk  the  sacrifice  of  the  Aladdin's 
lamp  that  had  been  thrust  into  his  hands,  and  that  only 
a  fool  but  would  devote  body  and  soul  to  Larmon's 
interests  under  the  circumstances! 

The  smile  grew  whimsical.  It  was  complimentary  in 
a  sense.  It  was  based  on  the  premise  that  he,  John 
Bruce,  was  not  a  fool.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
Well,  therein  Larmon  was  right.  It  would  not  be  his, 
John  Bruce's,  fault  if  anything  short  of  death  termi- 
nated the  bond  which  had  originated  that  tropic  night 
on  the  moon-lit  beach  in  Samoa  three  months  ago ! 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  nine  o'clock.  It  was 
still  early  for  play;  but  it  was  not  so  early  that  his 
arrival  in  the  New  York  "branch,"  where  he  had  been 
a  constant  visitor  for  the  last  four  nights,  could  possi- 
bly arouse  any  suspicion,  and  one's  opportunities  for 
inside  observation  were  very  much  better  when  the  play 
was  desultory  and  but  few  present  than  in  the  crowded 
rooms  of  the  later  hours. 

"If  I  were  in  England  now,"  said  John  Bruce, 
addressing  the  chandelier,  as  he  put  on  a  light  coat 
over  his  evening  clothes,  I  couldn't  get  away  with 
this  without  a  man  to  valet  me — and  at  times,  though 
he  might  be  useful,  he  might  be  awkward.  Damned 
awkward!  But  in  America  you  do,  or  you  don't,  as 
you  please — and  I  don't!" 


THE  MILLIONAIRE  PLUNGER 

JOHN  BRUCE  left  the  hotel  and  entered  a  taxi. 
A  little  later,  in  that  once  most  fashionable 
section  of  New  York,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Gramercy  Square,  he  was  admitted  to  a  stately 
mansion  by  a  white-haired  negro  butler,  who  bowed 
obsequiously. 

Thereafter,  for  a  little  while,  John  Bruce  wan- 
dered leisurely  from  room  to  room  in  the  mag- 
nificently appointed  house,  where  in  the  rich  car- 
pets the  sound  of  footsteps  was  lost,  where  bronzes  and 
paintings,  exquisite  in  their  art,  charmed  the  eye,  where 
soft-toned  draperies  and  portieres  were  eloquent  of 
refinement  and  good  taste;  he  paused  for  a  moment  at 
the  threshold  of  the  supper  room,  whose  table  was  a 
profusion  of  every  delicacy  to  tempt  the  palate,  where 
wines  of  a  vintage  that  was  almost  priceless  were  to 
be  had  at  no  greater  cost  than  the  effort  required  to 
lift  a  beckoning  finger  to  the  smiling  ebony  face  of  old 
Jake,  the  attendant.  And  here  John  Bruce  extended 
a  five-dollar  bill,  but  shook  his  head  as  the  said  Jake 
hastened  toward  him.  Later,  perhaps,  he  might  re- 
visit the  room — when  a  few  hours'  play  had  dimmed 
the  recollection  of  his  recent  dinner,  and  his  appetite 
was  again  sharpened. 

In  the  card  rooms  there  were,  as  yet,  scarcely  any 

48 


THE  MILLIONAIRE  PLUNGER         49 

"guests."  He  chatted  pleasantly  with  the  "dealers" — 
John  Bruce,  the  millionaire  plunger,  was  persona  grata, 
almost  effusively  so,  everywhere  in  the  house. 
Lavergne,  the  manager,  as  Parisian  as  he  was  immacu- 
late from  the  tips  of  his  patent-leathers  to  the  tips  of 
his  waxed  mustache,  joined  him;  and  for  ten  minutes, 
until  the  other  was  called  away,  John  Bruce  proceeded 
to  nourish  the  already  extremely  healthy  germ  of  inti- 
macy that,  from  the  first  meeting,  he  had  planted 
between  them. 

With  the  manager's  million  apologies  for  the  unpar- 
donable act  of  tearing  himself  away  still  sounding  in 
his  ears,  John  Bruce  placidly  resumed  his  wanderings. 
The  New  York  "branch,"  which  being  interpreted 
meant  Monsieur  Henri  de  Lavergne,  the  exquisite 
little  manager,  was  heavily  underscored  on  Gilbert 
Larmon's  black-list! 

The  faint,  musical  whir  of  the  little  ivory  ball  from 
the  roulette  table  caught  John  Bruce's  attention,  and  he 
strolled  in  that  direction.  Here  a  "guest"  was  already 
at  play.  The  croupier  smiled  as  John  Bruce  ap- 
proached the  table.  John  Bruce  smiled  pleasantly  in 
return,  and  sat  down.  After  a  moment,  he  began  to 
make  small  five-dollar  bets  on  the  "red."  His  fellow- 
player  was  plunging  heavily — and  losing.  Also,  the 
man  was  slightly  under  the  influence  of  liquor.  The 
croupier's  voice  droned  through  half  a  dozen  plays. 
John  Bruce  continued  to  make  five-dollar  bets.  The 
little  by-play  interested  him.  He  knew  the  signs. 

His  fellow-player  descended  to  the  supper  room  for 
another  drink,  it  being  against  the  rules  of  the  house 
to  serve  anything  in  the  gambling  rooms.  The 
croupier  laughed  as  he  glanced  at  the  retreating  figure 


50  PAWNED 

and  then  at  another  five-dollar  bet  that  John  Bruce 
pushed  upon  the  "red." 

"He'll  rob  you  of  your  reputation,  Mr.  Bruce,  if 
you  don't  look  outl"  the  croupier  smiled  quizzically. 
"Are  you  finding  a  thrill  in  playing  the  minimum  for  a 
change?" 

"Just  feeling  my  way."  John  Bruce  returned  the 
smile.  "It's  a  bit  early  yet,  isn't  it?" 

The  other  player  returned.  He  continued  to  bet 
heavily.  He  made  another  excursion  below  stairs. 
Other  "guests"  drifted  into  the  room,  and  the  play 
became  more  general. 

John  Bruce  increased  his  stakes  slightly,  quite  indif- 
ferent naturally  as  to  whether  he  lost  or  won — since 
he  could  neither  lose  nor  win.  He  was  sitting  beside 
the  player  he  had  originally  joined  at  the  table,  and 
suddenly  his  interest  in  the  other  became  still  more 
enlivened.  The  man,  after  a  series  of  disastrous  plays, 
was  palpably  broke,  for  he  snatched  off  a  large  dia- 
mond ring  from  his  finger  and  held  it  out  to  the 
croupier. 

"Give  me — 'hicl —  somethin'  on  that,"  he  hic- 
coughed. "Might  as  well  make  a  clean-up,  eh?" 

The  croupier  took  the  ring,  examined  it  critically 
for  an  instant,  and  handed  it  back. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said;  "but  you  know  the  rules  of  the 
house.  I  couldn't  advance  anything  on  it  if  it  were 
worth  a  million.  But  the  stone's  valuable,  all  right. 
You'd  better  take  a  trip  to  Persia." 

The  man  replaced  the  ring  with  some  difficulty  upon 
his  finger,  and  stared  owlishly  at  the  croupier. 

"T'  hell  with  your — hie! — trip  to  Persia  I"  he  said 


THE  MILLIONAIRE  PLUNGER          51 

thickly.  "Don't  like  Persia  1  Been — hie! — there 
before !  Guess  I'll  go  home !" 

The  man  negotiated  his  way  to  the  door;  the  game 
went  on.  John  Bruce  began  to  increase  his  stakes 
materially.  A  trip  to  Persia  1  What,  exactly,  did  that 
mean?  It  both  piqued  his  curiosity  and  stirred  his 
suspicions.  He  smiled  as  he  placed  a  heavy  stake  upon 
the  table.  It  would  probably  be  a  much  more  expen- 
sive trip  to  this  fanciful  Persia  than  to  the  Persia  of 
reality,  for  it  seemed  that  one  must  go  broke  first! 
Well,  he  would  go  broke — though  it  would  require 
some  little  finesse  for  John  Bruce,  the  millionaire 
plunger,  to  attain  that  envious  situation  without  excit- 
ing suspicion.  He  was  very  keenly  interested  in  this 
personally  conducted  tour,  obviously  inaugurated  by 
that  exquisite  little  man,  Monsieur  Paul  de  Lavergne ! 

John  Bruce  to  his  inward  chagrin — won.  He  began 
to  play  now  with  a  zest,  eagerness  and  excitement 
which,  heretofore,  the  juggling  of  Mephistopheles' 
money  had  deprived  him  of.  Outwardly,  however,  the 
calm  impassiveness  that,  in  the  few  evenings  he  had 
been  in  the  house,  had  already  won  him  the  reputation 
of  being  par  excellence  a  cool  and  nervy  plunger, 
remained  unchanged. 

He  continued  to  win  for  a  while ;  and  then  suddenly 
he  began  to  lose.  This  was  much  better!  He  lost 
steadily  now.  He  staked  with  lavish  hand,  playing 
numerous  long  chances  for  the  limit  at  every  voyage  of 
the  clicking  little  ivory  ball.  Finally,  the  last  of  his 
visible  assets  were  on  the  table,  and  he  leaned  forward 
to  watch  the  fall  of  the  ball.  He  was  already  fingering 
the  magnificent  jeweled  watch- fob  that  dangled  from 
the  pocket  of  his  evening  clothes. 


52  PAWNED 

"Zero!"  announced  the  croupier. 

The  "zero"  had  been  one  of  his  selections.  The 
"zero"  paid  35  for  i. 

A  subdued  ripple  of  excitement  went  up  from  around 
the  table.  The  room  was  filling  up.  The  still-early 
comers,  mostly  spectators  for  the  time  being,  lured  to 
the  roulette  table  at  the  whisper  that  the  millionaire 
plunger  was  out  to-night  to  break  the  bank,  were  whet- 
ting their  own  appetites  in  the  play  of  Mr.  John  Bruce, 
who  had  obviously  just  escaped  being  broke  himself  by 
a  very  narrow  margin. 

John  Bruce  smiled.  He  was  in  funds  again — more 
so  than  pleased  himl 

"It's  a  'zero'  night,  Mr.  Croupier,"  observed  John 
Bruce  pleasantly.  "Roll  her  again!" 

But  now  luck  was  with  John  Bruce.  The  "zero"  and 
his  other  combinations  were  as  shy  and  elusive  as 
fawns.  At  the  expiration  of  another  half  hour  the  net 
result  of  John  Bruce's  play  consisted  in  his  having 
transferred  from  his  own  keeping  into  the  keeping  of 
the  New  York  branch  thirty  thousand  dollars  of 
Mephistopheles'  money.  He  was  to  all  appearances 
flagrantly  broke  as  far  as  funds  in  his  immediate  pos- 
session were  concerned. 

"I  guess,"  said  John  Bruce,  with  a  whimsical  smile, 
"that  I  didn't  bring  enough  with  me.  I  don't  know 
where  I  can  get  any  more  to-night,  and — oh,  here!" 
He  laughed  with  easy  grace,  as  he  suddenly  tossed  his 
jeweled  watch-fob  to  the  croupier.  "One  more  fling 
anyhow — I've  still  unbounded  faith  in  'zero' !  Let  me 
have  a  thousand  on  that.  It's  worth  about  two." 

The  croupier,  as  on  the  previous  occasion,  examined 
the  article,  but,  as  before,  shook  his  head. 


THE  MILLIONAIRE  PLUNGER          53 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Mr.  Bruce,  but  it's  strictly 
against  the  rules  of  the  house,"  he  said  apologetically. 
"I  can  fix  it  for  you  easily  enough  though,  if  you  care 
to  take  a  trip  to  Persia." 

"A  trip  to  Persia?"  inquired  John  Bruce  in  a  puzzled 
way.  "I  think  I  heard  you  suggest  that  before  this 
evening.  What's  the  idea?" 

Some  of  those  around  the  table  were  smiling. 

"It's  all  right,"  volunteered  a  player  opposite,  with 
a  laugh.  "Only  look  out  for  the  conductor!" 

"Shoot!"  said  John  Bruce  nonchalantly.  "That's 
good  enough!  You  can  book  my  passage,  Mr. 
Croupier." 

The  croupier  called  an  attendant,  spoke  to  him,  and 
the  man  left  the  room. 

"It  will  take  a  few  minutes,  Mr.  Bruce — while  you 
are  getting  your  hat  and  coat.  The  doorman  will  let 
you  know,"  said  the  croupier,  and  with  a  bow  to  John 
Bruce  resumed  the  interrupted  game. 

John  Bruce  strolled  from  the  room,  and  descended 
to  the  lower  floor.  He  entered  the  supper  room,  and 
while  old  Jake  plied  him  with  delicacies  he  saw  the 
doorman  emerge  from  the  telephone  booth  out  in  the 
hall,  hurry  away,  and  presently  return,  talking  ear- 
nestly with  Monsieur  Henri  de  Lavergne.  The  man- 
ager, in  turn,  entered  the  booth. 

Monsieur  Henri  de  Lavergne  came  into  the  supper 
room  after  a  moment. 

"In  just  a  few  minutes,  Mr.  Bruce — there  will  be  a 
slight  delay,"  he  said  effusively.  "Too  bad  to  keep  you 
waiting." 

"Not  at  all!"  responded  John  Bruce.     He  held  a 


54  PAWNED 

wine  glass  up  to  the  light.  "This  is  very  excellent, 
Monsieur  de  Lavergne." 

Monsieur  Henri  de  Lavergne  accepted  the  compli- 
ment with  a  gratified  bow. 

"Mr.  Bruce  is  very  kind  to  say  so,"  he  said — and 
launched  into  an  elaborate  apology  that  Mr.  Bruce 
should  be  put  to  any  inconvenience  to  obtain  the  finan- 
cial accommodation  asked  for.  The  security  that  Mr. 
Bruce  offered  was  unquestioned.  It  was  not  that.  It 
was  the  rule  of  the  house.  Mr.  Bruce  would  under- 
stand. 

Mr.  Bruce  understood  perfectly. 

"Quite  so!"  he  said  cordially. 

Monsieur  Henri  de  Lavergne  excused  himself,  and 
left  the  room. 

"A  fishy,  clever  little  crook,"  confided  John  Bruce 
to  himself.  "I  wonder  what's  the  game?" 

He  continued  to  sip  his  wine  in  apparent  indifference 
to  the  passing  minutes,  nor  was  his  indifference  alto- 
gether assumed.  His  mind  was  quite  otherwise  occu- 
pied. It  was  rather  neat,  that — a  trip  to  Persia.  The 
expression  in  itself  held  a  lure  which  had  probably  not 
been  overlooked  as  an  asset.  It  suggested  Bagdad, 
and  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  a  Caliph  and  a  Grand 
Vizier  who  stalked  about  in  disguise.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  inebriated  gentleman  had  evidently  had  his 
fill  of  it  on  one  occasion,  and  would  have  no  more  of 
it.  And  the  other  gentleman  who  had,  as  it  were, 
indorsed  the  proceeding,  had,  at  the  same  time,  taken 
the  occasion  to  throw  out  a  warning  to  beware  of  the 
conductor. 

John  Bruce  smiled  pleasantly  into  his  wine  glass. 
Not  very  difficult  to  fathom,  perhaps,  after  all  I  It 


THE  MILLIONAIRE  PLUNGER          55 

was  probably  some  shrewd  old  reprobate  with  usurious 
rates  in  cahoots  with  the  sleek  Monsieur  Henri  de 
Lavergne,  who  made  a  side-split  on  the  said  rates  in 
return  for  the  exclusive  privilege  accorded  the  other  of 
acting  as  leech  to  the  guests  of  the  house  when  in 
extremity. 

It  had  been  perhaps  twenty  minutes  since  he  had  left 
the  roulette  table.  He  looked  at  his  watch  now  as  he 
saw  the  doorman  coming  toward  the  supper  room  with 
his  hat  and  coat.  The  night  was  still  early.  It  was  a 
quarter  to  eleven. 

He  went  out  into  the  hall. 

"Yassuh,"  said  the  gray-haired  and  obsequious  old 
darky,  as  he  assisted  John  Bruce  into  his  coat,  "if  yo'all 
will  just  come  with  me,  Mistuh  Bruce,  yo'all  will  be 
'commodated  right  prompt." 

John  Bruce  followed  his  guide  to  the  doorstep. 

The  darky  pointed  to  a  dosed  motor  car  at  the 
curb  by  the  corner,  a  few  houses  away, 

"Yo'all  just  say  'Persia'  to  the  shuffer,  Mistuh 
Bruce,  and " 

"All  right!"  John  Bruce  smiled  his  interruption, 
and  went  down  the  steps  to  the  sidewalk. 

John  Bruce  approached  the  waiting  car  leisurely, 
scrutinizing  it  the  while;  and  as  he  approached,  it 
seemed  to  take  on  more  and  more  the  aspect  of  a 
venerable  and  decrepit  ark.  The  body  of  the  car  was 
entirely  without  light;  the  glass  front,  if  there  were 
one,  behind  the  man  whom  he  discerned  sitting  in  the 
chauffeur's  seat,  was  evidently  closely  curtained;  and 
so,  too,  he  now  discovered  as  he  drew  nearer,  were 
the  windows  and  doors  of  the  car  as  well. 

"The   parlor  looks   a   little   ominous,"   said  John 


56  PAWNED 

Bruce  softly  to  himself.  "I  wonder  how  far  it  is  to 
the  spider's  dining  room?" 

He  halted  as  he  reached  the  vehicle. 

"I'm  bound  for  Persia,  I  believe,"  he  suggested 
pleasantly  to  the  chauffeur. 

The  chauffeur  leaned  out,  and  John  Bruce  was  con- 
scious that  he  was  undergoing  a  critical  inspection.  In 
turn  he  looked  at  the  chauffeur,  but  there  was  very 
little  light.  The  car  seemed  to  have  chosen  a  spot  as 
little  disturbed  by  the  rays  of  the  street  lamps  as  pos- 
sible, and  he  gained  but  a  vague  impression  of  a  red, 
weather-beaten  face,  clean  shaved,  with  shaggy  brows 
under  grizzled  hair,  the  whole  topped  by  an  equally 
weather-beaten  felt  hat  of  nondescript  shape  and 
color. 

The  inspection,  on  the  chauffeur's  part  at  least,  ap- 
peared to  be  satisfactory. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man.    "Step  in,  sir,  please." 

The  door  swung  open — just  how,  John  Bruce  could 
not  have  explained.  He  stepped  briskly  into  the  car 
— only  to  draw  back  instinctively  as  he  found  it  al- 
ready occupied.  But  the  door  had  closed  behind  him. 
It  was  inky  black  in  the  interior  now  with  the  door 
shut.  The  car  was  jolting  into  motion. 

"Pardon  me !"  said  John  Bruce  a  little  grimly,  and 
sat  down  on  the  back  seat. 

A  woman!  He  had  just  been  able  to  make  out  a 
woman's  form  as  he  had  stepped  in.  It  was  clever — 
damned  clever!  Of  both  the  exquisite  Monsieur 
Henri  de  Lavergne  and  the  money-lending  spider  at 
the  other  end  of  this  pleasant  little  jaunt  into  unex- 
plored Persia!  A  woman  in  it — a  luring,  painted, 
fair  and  winsome  damsel,  no  doubt — to  make  the  usuri- 


THE  MILLIONAIRE  PLUNGER         57 

ous  pill  of  illegal  interest  a  little  sweeter!  Oh,  yes, 
he  quite  understood  now  that  warning  to  beware  of 
the  conductor! 

"I  did  not  anticipate  such  charming  company,"  said 
John  Bruce  facetiously.  "Have  we  far  to  go?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

Something  like  a  shadow,  deeper  than  the  surround- 
ing blackness,  seemed  to  pass  before  John  Bruce's  eyes, 
and  then  he  sat  bolt  upright,  startled  and  amazed.  In 
front  of  him,  let  down  from  the  roof  of  the  car,  was 
a  small  table  covered  with  black  velvet,  and  suspended 
some  twelve  inches  above  the  table,  throwing  the  glow 
downward  in  a  round  spot  of  light  over  the  velvet 
surface,  was  a  shaded  electric  lamp.  A  small  white 
hand,  bare  of  any  ornament,  palm  upward,  lay  upon 
the  velvet  table-top  under  the  play  of  the  light. 

A  voice  spoke  now  softly  from  beside  him : 

"You  have  something  to  pawn?" 

John  Bruce  stared.    He  still  could  not  see  her  face. 

"Er — yes,"  he  said.  He  frowned  in  perplexity. 
"When  we  get  to  Persia,  alias  the  pawn-shop." 

"This  is  the  pawn-shop,"  she  answered.  "Let  me 
see  what  you  have,  please." 

"Well,  I'm  da "  John  Bruce  checked  himself. 

There  was  a  delicacy  about  that  white  hand  resting 
there  under  the  light  that  rebuked  him.  "Er — pardon 
me,"  said  John  Bruce. 

He  felt  for  his  jeweled  watch-fob,  unfastened  it, 
and  laid  it  in  the  extended  palm.  He  laughed  a  little  to 
himself.  On  with  the  game!  The  lure  was  here,  all 
right;  the  stage  setting  was  masterly — and  now  the 
piper  would  be  paid  on  a  basis,  probably,  that  would 


58  PAWNED 

relegate  Shylock  himself  to  the  kindergarten  class  of 
money  lenders! 

And  then,  suddenly,  it  seemed  to  John  Bruce  as 
though  his  blood  whipping  through  his  veins  was  afire. 
A  face  in  profile,  bending  forward  to  examine  the  dia- 
monds and  the  setting  of  the  fob-pendant,  came  under 
the  light.  He  gazed  at  it  fascinated.  It  was  the  most 
beautiful  face  he  had  ever  seen.  His  eyes  drank  in 
the  rich  masses  of  brown,  silken  hair,  the  perfect 
throat,  the  chin  and  lips  that,  while  modelled  in  sweet 
womanliness,  were  still  eloquent  of  self-reliance  and 
strength.  He  had  thought  to  see  a  pretty  face,  a 
little  brazen  perhaps,  and  artfully  powdered  and 
rouged;  what  he  saw  was  a  vision  of  loveliness  that 
seemed  to  personify  the  unsullied,  God-given  fresh- 
ness and  purity  of  youth. 

He  spoke  involuntarily;  no  power  of  his  could  have 
kept  back  the  words. 

"My  God,  you  are  wonderful  1"  he  exclaimed  in  a 
low  voice. 

He  saw  the  color  swiftly  tinge  the  throat  a  coral 
pink,  and  mount  upwards ;  but  she  did  not  look  at  him. 
Her  eyes!  He  wanted  to  see  her  eyes — to  look  into 
them!  But  she  did  not  turn  her  head. 

"You  probably  paid  two  thousand  dollars  for  this," 
she  said  quietly,  "and " 

"Nineteen  hundred,"  corrected  John  Bruce  mechan- 
ically. 

"I  will  allow  you  seventeen  hundred  on  it,  then," 
she  said,  still  quietly.  "The  interest  will  be  at  seven 
per  cent.  Do  you  wish  to  accept  the  offer?" 

Seventeen  hundred!     Seven  per  cent!     It  was  in 


THE  MILLIONAIRE  PLUNGER          59 

consonance  with  the  vision!  His  mind  was  topsy- 
turvy. He  did  not  understand. 

"It  is  very  liberal,"  said  John  Bruce,  trying  to  con- 
trol his  voice.  "Of  course,  I  accept." 

The  shapely  head  nodded. 

He  watched  her  spellbound.  The  watch-fob  had 
vanished,  and  in  its  place  now  under  the  little  conical 
shaft  of  light  she  was  swiftly  counting  out  a  pile  of 
crisp,  new,  fifty-dollar  banknotes.  To  these  she  added 
a  stamped  and  numbered  ticket. 

"You  may  redeem  the  pledge  at  any  time  by  mak- 
ing application  to  the  same  person  to  whom  you  origi- 
nally applied  for  a  loan  to-night,"  she  said,  as  she 
handed  him  the  money.  "Please  count  it." 

Her  head  was  in  shadow  now.  He  could  no 
longer  even  see  her  profile.  She  was  sitting  back  in 
her  corner  of  the  car. 

"I — I  am  quite  satisfied,"  said  John  Bruce  a  little 
helplessly. 

"Please  count  it,"  she  insisted. 

With  a  shrug  of  protest,  John  Bruce  obeyed  her. 
It  was  not  at  all  the  money  that  concerned  him,  nor 
the  touch  of  it  that  was  quickening  his  pulse. 

"It  is  quite  correct,"  he  said,  putting  money  and 
ticket  in  his  pocket.  He  turned  toward  her.  "And 
now " 

His  words  ended  in  a  little  gasp.  The  light  was 
out.  In  the  darkness  that  shadow  passed  again  before 
his  eyes,  and  he  was  conscious  that  the  table  had  van- 
ished— also  that  the  car  had  stopped. 

The  door  opened. 

"If  you  please,  sir!"  It  was  the  chauffeur,  holding 
the  door  open. 


6o  PAWNED 

John  Bruce  hesitated. 

"I_er— look  here!"  he  said.     "I " 

"If  you  please,  sir!"  There  was  something  of  sig- 
nificant finality  in  the  man's  patient  and  respectful 
tones. 

John  Bruce  smiled  wryly. 

"Well,  at  least,  I  may  say  good-night,"  he  said,  as 
he  backed  out  of  the  car. 

"Certainly,  sir — good-night,  sir,"  said  the  chauffeur 
calmly — and  closed  the  door,  and  touched  his  hat,  and 
climbed  back  to  his  seat. 

John  Bruce  glared  at  the  man. 

"Well,  I'm  damned!"  said  John  Bruce  fervently. 


—  Ill— . 

SANCTUARY 

THE  car  started  off.  It  turned  the  corner. 
John  Bruce  looked  around  him.  He  was 
standing  on  precisely  the  same  spot  from 
which  he  had  entered  the  car.  He  had  been  driven 
around  the  block,  that  was  all  I 

He  caught  his  breath.  Was  it  real?  That  won- 
drous face  which,  almost  as  though  at  the  touch  of 
some  magician's  wand,  had  risen  before  him  out  of 
the  blackness!  His  blood  afire  was  leaping  through 
his  veins  again.  That  face ! 

He  ran  to  the  corner  and  peered  down  the  street. 
The  car  was  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  away — and  sud- 
denly John  Bruce  started  to  run  again,  following  the 
car.  Madness!  His  lips  had  set  grim  and  hard. 
Who  was  she  that  prowled  the  night  in  that  bizarre 
traveling  pawn-shop?  Where  did  she  live?  Was  it 
actually  the  Arabian  Nights  back  again?  He  laughed 
at  himself — not  mirthfully.  But  still  he  ran  on. 

The  car  was  outdistancing  him.  Fool!  For  a 
woman's  face!  Even  though  it  were  a  divine  sym- 
phony of  beauty!  Fool?  Love-smitten  idiot?  Not 
at  all!  It  was  his  job!  Nice  sound  to  that  word  in 
conjunction  with  that  haunting  memory  of  loveliness 
—job! 

The  traveling  pawn-shop  turned  into  Fourth  Av- 

6r 


62  PAWNED 

enue,  and  headed  downtown.  John  Bruce  caught  the 
sound  of  a  street  car  gong,  spurted  and  swung  breath- 
lessly to  the  platform  of  a  car  going  in  the  same  di- 
rection. 

Of  course,  it  was  his  job !  The  exquisite  Monsieur 
Henri  de  Lavergne  was  mixed  up  in  this. 

"Hell!" 

The  street  car  conductor  stared  at  him.  John  Bruce 
scowled.  He  swore  again — but  this  time  under  his 
breath.  It  brought  a  sudden  wild,  unreasonable  rage 
and  rebellion,  the  thought  that  there  should  be  any- 
thing, even  of  the  remotest  nature,  between  the  glori- 
ous vision  in  that  car  and  the  mincing,  silken-tongued 
manager  of  Larmon's  gambling  hell.  But  there  was, 
for  all  that,  wasn't  there?  How  else  had  she  come 
there?  It  was  the  usual  thing,  wasn't  it?  And — be- 
ware of  the  conductor!  The  warning  now  appeared 
to  be  very  apt !  And  how  well  he  had  profited  by  it ! 
A  fool  chasing  a  siren's  beauty! 

His  face  grew  very  white. 

"John  Bruce,"  he  whispered  to  himself,  "if  I  could 
get  at  you  I'd  pound  your  face  to  pulp  for  that!" 

He  leaned  out  from  the  platform.  The  traveling 
pawn-shop  had  increased  its  speed  and  was  steadily 
leaving  the  street  car  behind.  He  looked  back  in  the 
opposite  direction.  The  street  was  almost  entirely  de- 
serted as  far  as  traffic  went.  The  only  vehicle  in  sight 
was  a  taxi  bowling  along  a  block  in  the  rear.  He 
laughed  out  again  harshly.  The  conductor  eyed  him 
suspiciously. 

John  Bruce  dropped  off  the  car,  and  planted  him- 
self in  the  path  of  the  on-coming  taxi.  Call  it  his  job, 
then,  if  it  pleased  him!  He  owed  it  to  Larmon  to 


SANCTUARY  63 

get  to  the  bottom  of  this.  How  extremely  logical  he 
was !  The  transaction  in  the  traveling  pawn-shop  had 
been  so  fair-minded  as  almost  to  exonerate  Monsieur 
Henri  de  Lavergne  on  the  face  of  it,  and  if  it  had  not 
been  for  a  certain  vision  therein,  and  a  fire  in  his  own 
veins,  and  a  fury  at  the  thought  that  even  her  ac- 
quaintance with  the  gambling  manager  was  profanity, 
he  could  have  heartily  applauded  Monsieur  Henri  de 
Lavergne  for  a  unique  and  original 

The  taxi  bellowed  at  him,  hoarsely  indignant. 

John  Bruce  stepped  neatly  to  one  side — and  jumped 
on  the  footboard. 

"Here,  you!  What  the  hell!"  shouted  the  chauf- 
feur. "You " 

"Push  your  foot  on  it  a  little,"  said  John  Bruce 
calmly.  "And  don't  lose  sight  of  that  closed  car 
ahead." 

"Lose  sight  of  nothin' !"  yelled  the  chauffeur.  "I've 
got  a  fare,  an' " 

"I  hear  him,"  said  John  Bruce  composedly.  He 
edged  in  beside  the  chauffeur,  and  one  of  the  crisp, 
new,  fifty-dollar  banknotes  passed  into  the  latter's  pos- 
session. "Keep  that  car  in  sight,  and  don't  make  it 
hopelessly  obvious  that  you  are  following  it.  I'll  at- 
tend to  your  fare." 

He  screwed  around  in  his  seat.  An  elderly,  gray- 
whiskered  gentleman,  a  patently  irate  gentleman,  was 
pounding  furiously  on  the  glass  panel. 

"We  should  be  turnin'  down  this  street  we're  just 
passin',"  grinned  the  chauffeur. 

John  Bruce  lowered  the  panel. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this?"  thundered  the  fare. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  sir,"  said  John  Bruce  respectfully. 


64  PAWNED 

"A  little  detective  business."  He  coughed.  It  was 
really  quite  true.  His  voice  became  confidential. 
"The  occupants  of  that  car  ahead  got  away  from  me. 
I — I  want  to  arrest  one  of  them.  I'm  very  sorry  to 
put  you  to  any  inconvenience,  but  it  couldn't  be  helped.. 
There  was  no  other  way  than  to  commandeer  your 
taxi.  It  will  be  only  for  a  matter  of  a  few  minutes." 

"It's  preposterous!"  spluttered  the  fare.  "Out- 
rageous! I— I'll " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  John  Bruce.  "But  there  was  noth- 
ing else  I  could  do.  You  can  report  it  to  headquarters, 
of  course." 

He  closed  the  panel. 

"Fly-cop — not!"  said  the  chauffeur,  with  his  tongue 
in  his  cheek.  "Any  fly-cop  that  ever  got  his  mitt  on  a 
whole  fifty-dollar  bill  all  at  one  time  couldn't  be  pried 
lose  from  it  with  a  crowbar!" 

"It  lets  you  out,  doesn't  it?"  inquired  John  Bruce 
pleasantly.  "Now  let's  see  you  earn  it." 

"I'll  earn  it!"  said  the  chauffeur  with  unction.  "You 
leave  it  to  me,  boss!" 

The  quarry,  in  the  shape  of  the  traveling  pawn- 
shop, directed  its  way  into  the  heart  of  the  East  Side. 
Presently  it  turned  into  a  hiving,  narrow  street,  where 
hawkers  with  their  push-carts  in  the  light  of  flaring, 
spitting  gasoline  banjoes  were  doing  a  thriving  busi- 
ness. The  two  cars  went  more  slowly  now.  There 
was  very  little  room.  The  taxi  almost  upset  a  fish 
vendor's  wheeled  emporium.  The  vendor  was  eloquent 
— fervently  so.  But  the  chauffeur's  eyes,  after  an  im- 
personal and  indifferent  glance  at  the  other,  returned 
to  the  car  ahead.  The  taxi  continued  on  its  way,  trail- 
ing fifty  yards  in  the  rear  of  the  traveling  pawn-shop. 


SANCTUARY  65 

At  the  end  of  the  block  the  car  ahead  turned  the 
corner.  As  the  taxi,  in  turn,  rounded  the  corner,  John 
Bruce  saw  that  the  traveling  pawn-shop  was  drawn  up 
before  a  small  building  that  was  nested  in  between  two 
tenements.  The  blood  quickened  in  his  pulse.  The 
girl  had  alighted,  and  was  entering  the  small  building. 

"Hit  it  up  a  little  to  the  next  corner,  turn  it,  and  let 
me  off  there,"  directed  John  Bruce. 

"I  get  you !"  said  the  chauffeur. 

The  taxi  swept  past  the  car  at  the  curb.  Another 
minute  and  it  had  swung  the  next  corner,  and  was 
slowing  down.  John  Bruce  jumped  to  the  ground  be- 
fore the  taxi  stopped. 

"Good-night!"  he  called  to  the  chauffeur. 

He  waved  his  hand  debonairly  at  the  scowling, 
whiskered  visage  that  was  watching  him  from  the  in- 
terior of  the  cab,  and  hurriedly  retraced  his  way  back 
around  the  corner. 

The  traveling  pawn-shop  had  turned  and  was  driv- 
ing away.  John  Bruce  moderated  his  pace,  and  saun- 
tered on  along  the  street.  He  smiled  half  grimly,  half 
contentedly  to  himself.  The  "trip  to  Persia"  had  led 
him  a  little  farther  afield  than  Monsieur  Henri  de 
Lavergne  had  perhaps  counted  on — or  than  he,  John 
Bruce,  himself  had,  either !  But  he  knew  now  where 
the  most  glorious  woman  he  had  ever  seen  in  his  life 
lived,  or,  at  least,  was  to  be  found  again.  No,  it 
wasn't  the  moon!  To  him,  she  was  exactly  that.  And 
he  had  not  seen  her  for  the  last  time,  either  I  That 
was  what  he  was  here  for,  though  he  wasn't  so  mad 
as  to  risk,  or,  rather,  invite  an  affront  to  begin  with 
by  so  bald  an  act  as  to  go  to  the  front  door,  say,  and 
ring  the  bell — which  would  be  tantamount  to  inform- 


66  PAWNED 

ing  her  that  he  had — er — played  the  detective  from 
the  moment  he  had  left  her  in  the  car.  To-morrow, 
perhaps,  or  the  next  day,  or  whenever  fate  saw  fit  to 
be  in  a  kindly  mood,  a  meeting  that  possessed  all  the 
hall-marks  of  being  quite  inadvertent  offered  him  high 
hopes.  Later,  if  fate  still  were  kind,  he  would  tell 
her  that  he  had  followed  her,  and  what  she  would  be 
thoroughly  justified  in  misconstruing  now,  she  might 
then  accept  as  the  tribute  to  her  that  he  meant  it 
to  be — when  she  knew  him  better. 

John  Bruce  was  whistling  softly  to  himself. 

He  was  passing  the  house  now,  his  scrutiny  none  the 
less  exhaustive  because  it  was  apparently  casual.  It 
was  a  curious  little  two-story  place  tucked  away  be- 
tween the  two  flanking  tenements,  the  further  one  of 
which  alone  separated  the  house  from  the  corner  he 
was  approaching.  Not  a  light  showed  from  the  front 
of  the  house.  Yes,  it  was  quite  a  curious  place!  Al- 
though curtains  were  on  the  lower  front  windows,  in- 
dicating that  it  was  purely  a  dwelling,  the  windows 
themselves  were  of  abnormal  size,  as  though,  origi- 
nally perhaps,  the  ground  floor  had  once  been  a  shop 
of  some  kind. 

John  Bruce  turned  the  corner,  and  from  a  compara- 
tively deserted  street  found  himself  among  the  vend- 
ors' push-carts  and  the  spluttering  gasoline  torches 
again.  He  skirted  the  side  of  the  tenement  that  made 
the  corner,  discovered  the  fact  that  a  lane  cut  in  from 
the  street  and  ran  past  the  rear  of  the  tenement,  which 
he  mentally  noted  must  likewise  run  past  the  rear  of 
the  little  house  that  was  now  so  vitally  interesting  to 
him — and  halted  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  lane  to 
survey  his  surroundings.  Here  a  dirty  and  uninviting 


SANCTUARY  67 

cafe  attracted  his  attention,  which,  if  its  dingy  sign 
were  to  be  believed,  was  run  by  one  Palasco  Ratti,  a 
gentleman  of  parts  in  the  choice  of  wines  which  he 
offered  to  his  patrons.  John  Bruce  surveyed  Palasco 
Ratti's  potential  clientele — the  street  was  full  of  it; 
the  shawled  women,  the  dark-visaged,  ear-ringed  men. 
He  smiled  a  little  to  himself.  No — probably  not  the 
half-naked  children  who  sprawled  in  the  gutter  and 
crawled  amongst  the  push-carts'  wheels!  How  was 
it  that  she  should  ever  have  come  to  live  in  a  neigh- 
borhood to  which  the  designation  "foreign,"  as  far  as 
she  was  concerned,  must  certainly  apply  in  particu- 
larly full  measure?  It  was  strange  that  she 

John  Bruce's  mental  soliloquy  came  to  an  abrupt 
end.  Half  humorously,  half  grimly  his  eyes  were 
riveted  on  the  push-cart  at  the  curb  directly  opposite 
to  him,  the  proprietor  of  which  dealt  in  that  brand  of 
confection  so  much  in  favor  on  the  East  Side — a  great 
slab  of  candy  from  which,  as  occasion  required,  he  cut 
slices  with  a  large  carving  knife.  A  brown  and  grimy 
fist  belonging  to  a  tot  of  a  girl  of  perhaps  eight  or 
nine  years  of  age,  who  had  crept  in  under  the  push- 
cart, was  stealthily  feeling  its  way  upward  behind  the 
vendor's  back,  its  objective  being,  obviously,  a  gener- 
ous piece  of  candy  that  reposed  on  the  edge  of  the 
push-cart.  There  was  a  certain  fascination  in  watching 
developments.  It  was  quite  immoral,  of  course,  but 
his  sympathies  were  with  the  child.  It  was  a  gamble 
whether  the  grimy  little  hand  would  close  on  the 
coveted  prize  and  disappear  again  victorious,  or 
whether  the  vendor  would  turn  in  time  to  frustrate  the 
raid. 

The  tot's  hand  crept  nearer  and  nearer  its  goal. 


68  PAWNED 

No  one,  save  himself  of  the  many  about,  appeared  to 
notice  the  little  cameo  of  primal  instinct  that  was  on 
exhibition  before  them.  The  small  and  dirty  fingers 
touched  the  candy,  closed  on  it,  and  were  withdrawn — 
but  were  withdrawn  too  quickly.  The  child,  at  the 
psychological  moment  under  stress  of  excitement, 
eagerness  and  probably  a  wildly  thumping  heart,  had 
failed  in  finesse.  Perhaps  the  paper  that  covered  the 
surface  of  the  push-cart  and  on  which  the  wares  were 
displayed  rattled;  perhaps  the  sudden  movement  in  it- 
self attracted  the  vendor's  attention.  The  man  whirled 
and  made  a  vicious  dive  for  the  child  as  she  darted 
out  from  between  the  wheels.  And  then  she  screamed. 
The  man  had  hit  her  a  brutal  clout  across  the  head. 

John  Bruce  straightened  suddenly,  a  dull  red  creep- 
ing from  his  set  jaw  to  his  cheeks.  Still  clutching  the 
candy  in  her  hand  the  child  was  running  blindly  and 
in  terror  straight  toward  him.  The  man  struck  again, 
and  the  child  staggered,  and,  reeling,  sought  sanctuary 
between  John  Bruce's  legs.  A  bearded,  snarling  face 
in  pursuit  loomed  up  before  him — and  John  Brace 
struck,  struck  as  he  had  once  struck  before  on  a  white 
moon-flooded  deck  when  a  man,  a  brute  beast,  had 
gone  down  before  him — and  the  vendor,  screaming 
shrilly,  lay  kicking  in  pain  on  the  sidewalk. 

It  had  happened  quickly.  Not  one,  probably,  of 
those  on  the  street  had  caught  the  details  of  the  little 
scene.  And  now  the  tiny  thief  had  wriggled  through 
his  legs,  and  with  the  magnificent  irresponsibility  of 
childhood  had  darted  away  and  was  lost  to  sight.  It 
had  happened  quickly — but  not  so  quickly  as  the  gath- 
ering together  of  an  angry,  surging  crowd  around 
John  Bruce. 


SANCTUARY  69 

Some  one  in  the  crowd  shrieked  out  above  the 
clamor  of  voices : 

"He  kill-a  Pietro!     Kill-a  da  dude!" 

It  was  a  fire-brand. 

John  Bruce  backed  away  a  little — up  against  the 
door  of  Signer  Pascalo  Ratti's  wine  shop.  A  glance 
showed  him  that,  with  the  blow  he  had  struck,  his  light 
overcoat  had  become  loosened,  and  that  he  was  flaunt- 
ing an  immaculate  and  gleaming  shirt-front  in  the 
faces  of  the  crowd.  And  between  their  Pietro  with  a 
broken  jaw  and  an  intruder  far  too  well  dressed  to 
please  their  fancy,  the  psychology  of  the  crowd  became 
the  psychology  of  a  mob. 

The  fire-brand  took. 

"Kill-a  da  dude!"  It  was  echoed  in  chorus — and 
then  a  rush. 

It  flung  John  Bruce  heavily  against  the  wine  shop 
door,  and  the  door  crashed  inward — and  for  a  mo- 
ment he  was  down,  and  the  crowd,  like  a  snarling  wolf 
pack,  was  upon  him.  And  then  the  massive  shoulders 
heaved,  and  he  shook  them  off  and  was  on  his  feet; 
and  all  that  was  primal,  elemental  in  the  man  was 
dominant,  the  mad  glorying  in  strife  upon  him,  and 
he  struck  right  and  left  with  blows  before  which,  again 
and  again,  a  man  went  down. 

But  the  rush  still  bore  him  backward,  and  the  door- 
way was  black  and  jammed  with  reinforcements  con- 
stantly pouring  in.  Tables  crashed  to  the  floor,  chairs 
were  overturned.  Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  saw 
a  white-mustached  Italian  leap  upon  the  counter  and 
alternately  wave  his  arms  and  wring  his  hands  to- 
gether frantically. 

"For  the  mercy  of  God!"  the  man  screamed — and 


70  PAWNED 

then  his  voice  added  to  the  din  in  a  flood  of  impas. 
sioned  Italian.  It  was  Signor  Pascalo  Ratti,  probably. 

John  Bruce  was  panting  now,  his  breath  coming  in 
short,  hard  gasps.  It  was  not  easy  to  keep  them  in 
front  of  him,  to  keep  his  back  free.  He  caught  the 
glint  of  knife  blades  now. 

He  was  borne  back  foot  by  foot,  the  space  widening 
as  he  retreated  from  the  door,  giving  room  for  more 
to  come  upon  him  at  the  same  time.  A  knife  blade 
lunged  at  him.  He  evaded  it — but  another  glittering 
in  the  ceiling  light  at  the  same  instant,  flashing  a  mur- 
derous arc  in  its  downward  plunge,  caught  him,  and, 
before  he  could  turn,  sank  home. 

A  yell  of  triumph  went  up.  He  felt  no  pain.  Only 
a  sudden  sickening  of  his  brain,  a  sudden  weakness  that 
robbed  his  limbs  of  strength,  and  he  reeled  and  stag- 
gered, fighting  blindly  now. 

And  then  his  brain  cleared.  He  flung  a  quick 
glance  over  his  shoulder.  Yes,  there  was  one  chance. 
Only  one !  And  in  another  minute,  with  another  knife 
thrust,  it  would  be  too  late.  He  whirled  suddenly  and 
raced  down  the  length  of  the  cafe.  In  the  moment's 
grace  earned  through  surprise  at  his  sudden  action,  he 
gained  a  door  he  had  seen  there,  and  threw  himself 
upon  it.  It  was  not  fastened,  though  there  was  a  key 
in  the  lock.  He  whipped  out  the  key,  plunged  through, 
locked  the  door  on  the  outside  with  the  fraction  of  a 
second  to  spare  before  they  came  battering  upon  it — 
and  stumbled  and  fell  headlong  out  into  the  open. 

It  was  as  though  he  were  lashing  his  brain  into  ac- 
tion and  virility.  It  kept  wobbling  and  fogging. 
Didn't  the  damned  thing  understand  that  his  life  was 
at  stake  1  He  lurched  to  his  feet.  He  was  in  a  lane. 


SANCTUARY  71 

In  front  of  him,  like  great  looming  shadows,  shadows 
that  wobbled  too,  he  saw  the  shapes  of  two  tenements, 
and  like  an  inset  between  them,  a  small  house  with  a 
light  gleaming  in  the  lower  window. 

That  was  where  the  vision  lived.  Only  there  was 
a  fence  between.  Sanctuary!  He  lunged  toward  the 
fence.  He  had  not  meant  to — to  make  a  call  to-night 
— she — she  might  have  misunderstood.  But  in  a  sec- 
ond now  they  would  come  sweeping  around  into  the 
lane  after  him  from  the  street. 

He  clawed  his  way  to  the  top  of  the  fence,  and 
because  his  strength  was  almost  gone  fell  from  the  top 
of  the  fence  to  the  ground  on  the  other  side. 

And  now  he  crawled,  crawled  with  what  frantic 
haste  he  could,  because  he  heard  the  uproar  from  the 
street.  And  he  laughed.  The  kid  was  probably 
munching  her  hunk  of  candy  now.  Queer  things — 
kids!  Got  her  candy — happy 

He  reached  up  to  the  sill  of  an  open  window,  clawed 
his  way  upward,  as  he  had  clawed  his  way  up  the  fence, 
straddled  the  sill  unsteadily,  clutched  at  nothingness 
to  save  himself,  and  toppled  inward  to  the  floor  of  the 
room. 

A  yell  from  the  head  of  the  lane,  a  cry  from  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  spurred  him  into  final  effort. 
He  gained  his  feet,  and  swept  his  hand,  wet  with  blood, 
across  his  eyes.  That  was  the  vision  there  running 
toward  him,  wasn't  it? — the  wonderful,  glorious 
vision ! 

"Pardon  me!"  said  John  Bruce  in  a  sing-song  voice, 
and  with  a  desperate  effort  reached  up  and  pulled  down 
the  window  shade.  He  tried  to  smile  "Queer — queer 


72  PAWNED 

things — kids — aren't  they?  She — she  just  ducked  out 
from  under." 

The  girl  was  staring  at  him  wildly,  her  hands  tightly 
clasped  to  her  bosom. 

"Pardon  me!"  whispered  John  Bruce  thickly.  He 
couldn't  see  her  any  more,  just  a  multitude  of  objects 
whirling  like  a  kaleidoscope  before  his  eyes.  "She — 
she  got  the  candy,"  said  John  Bruce,  attempting  to 
smile  again — and  pitched  unconscious  to  the  floor. 


—  IV  — 

A  DOCTOR  OF  MANY  DEGREES 

DEAD !  The  girl  was  on  her  knees  beside  John 
Bruce.  Dead — he  did  not  move !  It  was  the 
man  who  had  pawned  his  watch-fob  hardly 
half  an  hour  before !  What  did  it  mean?  What  did 
those  angry  shouts,  that  scurrying '  of  many  feet  out 
there  in  the  lane  mean?  Hurriedly,  her  face  as  deadly 
white  as  the  face  upturned  to  her  from  the  floor,  she 
tore  open  the  once  immaculate  shirt-front,  that  was 
now  limp  and  wet  and  ugly  with  a  great  crimson  stain, 
and  laid  bare  the  wound. 

The  sounds  from  without  were  receding,  the  scurry- 
ing footsteps  were  keeping  on  along  the  lane.  A  quiver 
ran  through  the  form  on  the  floor.  Dead !  No,  he  was 
not  dead — not — not  yet. 

A  little  cry  escaped  from  her  tightly  closed  lips,  and 
for  an  instant  she  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands. 
The  wound  was  terrible — it  frightened  her.  It 
frightened  her  the  more  because,  intuitively,  she  knew 
that  it  was  beyond  any  inexperienced  aid  that  she  could 
give.  But  she  must  act,  and  act  quickly. 

She  turned  and  ran  into  the  adjoining  room  to  the 
telephone,  but  even  as  she  reached  out  to  lift  the 
receiver  from  the  hook  she  hesitated.  Doctor  Crang! 
A  little  shudder  of  aversion  swept  over  her — and  then 
resolutely,  even  pleading  with  central  to  hurry,  she 

73 


74  PAWNED 

asked  for  the  connection.  It  was  not  a  matter  of 
choice,  or  aversion,  or  any  other  consideration  in  the 
world  save  a  question  of  minutes.  The  life  of  that 
man  in  there  on  the  floor  hung  by  a  thread.  Doctor 
Crang  was  nearby  enough  to  respond  almost  instantly, 
and  there  was  no  one  else  she  knew  of  who  she  could 
hope  would  reach  the  man  in  time.  And — she  stared 
frantically  at  the  instrument  now — was  even  he  un- 
available? Why  didn't  he  answer?  Why  didn't 

A  voice  reached  her.     She  recognized  it. 

"Doctor  Crang,  this  is  Claire  Veniza,"  she  said, 
and  it  did  not  seem  as  though  she  could  speak  fast 
enough.  "Come  at  once — oh,  at  once — please! 
There's  a  man  here  frightfully  wounded.  There  isn't 
a  second  to  lose,  so——" 

"My  dear  Claire,"  interrupted  the  voice  suavely, 
"instead  of  losing  one  you  can  save  several  by  telling 
me  what  kind  of  a  wound  it  is,  and  where  the  man  is 
wounded." 

"It's  a  knife  wound,  a  stab,  I  think,"  she  answered; 
"and  it's  in  his  side.  He  is  unconscious,  and " 

The  receiver  at  the  other  end  had  been  replaced  on 
its  hook. 

She  turned  from  the  telephone,  and  swiftly,  hurry- 
ing, but  in  cool  self-control  now,  she  obtained  some 
cloths  and  a  basin  of  warm  water,  and  returned  to  John 
Bruce's  side.  She  could  not  do  much,  she  realized  that 
— only  make  what  effort  she  could  to  staunch  the 
appalling  flow  of  blood  from  the  wound;  that,  and 
place  a  cushion  under  the  man's  head,  for  she  could  not 
lift  him  to  the  couch. 

The  minutes  passed;  and  then,  thinking  she  heard 
a  footstep  at  the  front  door,  she  glanced  in  that  direc- 


A  DOCTOR  OF  MANY  DEGREES    75 

tion,  half  in  relief,  and  yet,  too,  in  curious  apprehen- 
sion. She  listened.  No,  there  was  no  one  there  yet. 
She  had  been  mistaken. 

Suddenly  she  caught  her  breath  in  a  little  gasp,  as 
though  startled.  Doctor  Crang  was  clever;  but  faith 
in  Doctor  Crang  professionally  was  one  thing,  and 
faith  in  him  in  other  respects  was  quite  another.  Why 
hadn't  she  thought  of  it  before?  It  wasn't  too  late  yet, 
was  it? 

She  began  to  search  hastily  through  John  Bruce's 
pockets.  Doctor  Crang  would  almost  certainly  sug- 
gest removing  the  man  from  the  sitting  room  down 
here  and  getting  him  upstairs  to  a  bedroom,  and  then 
he  would  undress  his  patient,  and — and  it  was  perhaps 
as  well  to  anticipate  Doctor  Crang!  This  man  here 
should  have  quite  a  sum  of  money  on  his  person.  She 
had  given  it  to  him  herself,  and — yes,  here  it  was! 

The  crisp  new  fifty-dollar  bills,  the  stamped  and 
numbered  ticket  that  identified  the  watch-fob  he  had 
pawned,  were  in  her  hand.  She  ran  across  the  room, 
opened  a  little  safe  in  the  corner,  placed  the  money  and 
ticket  inside,  locked  the  safe  again,  and  returned  to 
John  Bruce's  side  once  more. 

And  suddenly  her  eyes  filled.  There  was  no  tremor, 
no  movement  in  the  man's  form  now;  she  could  not 
even  feel  his  heartbeat.  Yes,  she  wanted  Doctor 
Crang  now,  passionately,  wildly.  John  Bruce — that 
was  the  man's  name.  She  knew  that  much.  But  she 
had  left  him  miles  away — and  he  was  here  now — and 
she  did  not  understand.  How  had  he  got  here,  why 
had  he  come  here,  climbing  in  through  that  window  to 
fall  at  her  feet  like  one  dead? 

The  front  door  opened  without  premonitory  ring  of 


76  PAWNED 

bell,  and  closed  again.  A  footstep  came  quickly  for- 
ward through  the  outer  room — and  paused  on  the 
threshold. 

Claire  Veniza  rose  to  her  feet,  and  her  eyes  went 
swiftly,  sharply,  to  the  figure  standing  there — a  man 
of  perhaps  thirty  years  of  age,  of  powerful  build,  and 
yet  whose  frame  seemed  now  woefully  loose,  dis- 
jointed and  without  virility.  Her  eyes  traveled  to  the 
man's  clothing  that  was  dirty,  spotted,  and  in  dire  need 
of  sponging,  to  the  necktie  that  hung  awry,  to  the  face 
that,  but  for  its  unhealthy,  pasty-yellow  complexion, 
would  have  been  almost  strikingly  handsome,  to  the 
jet-black  eyes  that  somehow  at  the  moment  seemed  to 
lack  fire  and  life.  And  with  a  little  despairing  shrug 
of  her  shoulders,  Claire  Veniza  turned  away  her  head, 
and  pointed  to  the  form  of  John  Bruce  on  the  floor. 

"I — I  am  afraid  it  is  very  serious,  Doctor  Crang," 
she  faltered. 

"That's  all  right,  Claire,"  he  said  complacently. 
"That's  all  right,  my  dear.  You  can  leave  it  with  con- 
fidence to  Sydney  Angus  Crang,  M.D." 

She  drew  a  little  away  as  he  stepped  forward,  her 
face  hardening  into  tight  little  lines.  Hidden,  her 
hands  clasped  anxiously  together.  It — it  was  what  she 
had  feared.  Doctor  Sydney  Angus  Crang,  gold  med- 
alist from  one  of  the  greatest  American  universities, 
brilliant  far  beyond  his  fellows,  with  additional  degrees 
from  London,  from  Vienna,  from  Heaven  alone  knew 
where  else,  was  just  about  entering  upon,  or  emerging 
from,  a  groveling  debauch  with  that  Thing  to  which 
he  had  pawned  his  manhood,  his  intellect  and  his  soul, 
that  Thing  of  gray  places,  of  horror,  of  forgetfulness, 
of  bliss,  of  torture — cocaine. 


A  DOCTOR  OF  MANY  DEGREES    77 

Halfway  from  the  threshold  to  where  John  Bruce 
lay,  Doctor  Crang  halted  abruptly. 

"Hello!"  he  exclaimed,  and  glanced  with  suddenly 
darkening  face  from  Claire  Veniza  to  the  form  of  John 
Bruce,  and  back  to  Claire  Veniza  again. 

"Oh,  will  you  hurry!"  she  implored.  "Can't  you  see 
that  the  wound " 

"I  am  more  interested  in  the  man  than  in  the 
wound,"  said  Doctor  Crang,  and  there  was  a  hint  of 
menace  in  his  voice.  "Quite  a  gentleman  of  parts! 
I  had  expected — let  me  see  what  I  had  expected — well, 
say,  one  of  the  common  knife-sticking  breed  that 
curses  this  neighborhood." 

Claire  Veniza  stamped  her  foot. 

"Oh,  hurry!"  she  burst  out  wildly.  "Don't  stand 
there  talking  while  the  man  is  dying!  Do  something!" 

Doctor  Crang  advanced  to  John  Bruce's  side,  set 
down  the  little  handbag  he  was  carrying,  and  began  to 
examine  the  wound. 

"Yes,  quite  a  gentleman  of  parts!"  he  repeated.  His 
lips  had  thinned.  "How  did  he  get  here?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  answered.  "He  came  in 
through  that  window  there  and  fell  on  the  floor." 

"How  peculiar!"  observed  Doctor  Crang.  "A 
gentleman  down  here  in  this  locality,  who  is,  yes,  I  will 
state  it  as  a  professional  fact,  in  a  very  critical  state, 
climbs  in  through  Miss  Claire  Veniza's  window, 
and " 

The  telephone  in  the  other  room  rang.  Claire 
Veniza  ran  to  it.  Doctor  Crang's  fingers  nestled  on 
John  Bruce's  pulse ;  he  made  no  other  movement  save 
to  cock  his  head  in  a  listening  attitude  in  the  girl's 


78  PAWNED 

direction;  he  made  no  effort  either  to  examine  further 
or  to  dress  the  wound. 

Claire  Veniza's  voice  came  distinctly: 

".  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  No,  I  do  not  think  he  will  return 
to-night" — she  was  hesitating — "he — he  met  with  an 
— an  accident " 

Doctor  Crang  had  sprung  from  the  other  room  and 
had  snatched  the  receiver  from  the  girl's  hand.  A 
wave  of  insensate  fury  swept  his  face  now.  He  pushed 
her  roughly  from  the  instrument,  and  clapped  his  hand 
over  the  transmitter. 

"That's  one  lie  you've  told  me!"  he  said  hoarsely. 
"I'll  attend  to  the  rest  of  this  now."  He  withdrew 
his  hand  from  the  transmitter.  "Yes,  hello!"  His 
voice  was  cool,  even  suave.  "What  is  it?  .  .  .  Mon- 
sieur Henri  de  Lavergne  speaking — yes  .  .  .  Mister 
— who?  .  .  .  Mister  John  Bruce — yes."  He  listened 
for  a  moment,  his  lips  twitching,  his  eyes  narrowed  on 
Claire  Veniza,  who  had  retreated  a  few  steps  away. 
"No,  not  to-night,"  he  said,  speaking  again  into  the 
transmitter.  "Yes,  a  slight  accident.  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  . 
Good-by." 

Doctor  Sydney  Angus  Crang  hung  up  the  receiver, 
and  with  a  placid  smile  at  variance  with  the  glitter  that 
suddenly  brought  life  into  his  dulled  eyes,  advanced 
toward  the  girl.  She  stepped  backward  quickly  into 
the  other  room,  retreating  as  far  as  the  motionless 
form  that  lay  upon  the  floor.  Doctor  Crang  followed 
her. 

And  then  Claire  Veniza,  her  face  grown  stony,  her 
small  hands  clenched,  found  her  voice  again. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  help  him?    Aren't  you  going 


A  DOCTOR  OF  MANY  DEGREES    79 

to  do  something?  Is  he  to  die  there  before  your  eyes?" 
she  cried. 

Doctor  Crang  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"What  can  I  do?"  he  inquired  with  velvet  softness. 
"I  am  helpless.  How  can  I  bring  the  dead  back  to 
life?" 

"Dead!"  All  color  had  fled  her  face;  she  bent  and 
looked  searchingly  at  John  Bruce. 

"Oh,  no;  not  yet,"  said  Doctor  Crang  easily.  "But 
very  nearly  so." 

"And  you  will  do  nothing!"  She  was  facing  him 
again.  "Then — then  I  will  try  and  get  some  one  else." 

She  stepped  forward  abruptly. 

Doctor  Crang  barred  her  way. 

"I  don't  think  you  will,  Claire,  my  dear!"  His  voice 
was  monotonous;  the  placid  smile  was  vanishing. 
"You  see,  having  spoken  to  that  dear  little  doll  of  a 
man,  Monsieur  Henri  de  Lavergne,  I'm  very  much 
interested  in  hearing  your  side  of  the  story." 

"Story!"  the  girl  echoed  wildly.  "Story — while  that 
man's  life  is  lost!  Are  you  mad — or  a  murderer — 
or " 

"Another  lover,"  said  Doctor  Crang,  and  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed. 

She  shrank  away;  her  hands  tight  against  her  bosom. 
She  glanced  around  her.  If  she  could  only  reach  the 
telephone  and  lock  the  connecting  door!  No!  She 
did  not  dare  leave  him  alone  with  the  wounded  man. 

"What — what  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  whispered. 

"Nothing — till  I  hear  the  story,"  he  answered. 

"If — if  he  dies" — her  voice  rang  steadily  again — 
"I'll  have  you  charged  with  murder." 

"What  nonsense!"  said  Doctor  Crang  imperturb- 


8o  PAWNED 

ably.  "Did  I  stab  the  gentleman?"  He  took  from  his 
pocket  a  little  case,  produced  a  hypodermic  syringe, 
and  pushed  back  his  sleeve.  "A  doctor  is  not  a 
magician.  If  he  finds  a  patient  beyond  reach  of  aid 
what  can  he  be  expected  to  do?  My  dear  Claire, 
where  are  your  brains  to-night — you  who  are  usually 
so  amazingly  clever?" 

"You  are  mad — insane  with  drug!"  she  cried  out 
piteously. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  coolly  inserted  the  needle  of 
the  hypodermic  in  his  arm. 

"Not  yet,"  he  said.  "I  am  only  implacable.  Shall 
we  get  on  with  the  story?  Monsieur  de  Lavergne  says 
he  sent  a  gentleman  by  the  name  of  John  Bruce  out  in 
your  father's  car  a  little  while  ago  for  the  purpose  of 
obtaining  a  loan  in  order  that  the  said  John  Bruce 
might  return  to  the  gambling  joint  and  continue  to  play. 
But  Mr.  Bruce  did  not  return,  and  the  doll,  for  some 
reason  being  anxious,  telephones  here  to  make  in- 
quiries. Of  course" — there  was  a  savage  laugh  in  his 
voice — "it  is  only  a  suspicion,  but  could  this  gentleman 
on  the  floor  here  by  any  chance  be  Mr.  John  Bruce?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  faintly.     "He  is  John  Bruce." 

"Thanks!"  said  Doctor  Crang  sarcastically.  He 
very  carefully  replaced  his  hypodermic  in  his  pocket. 
"Now  another  little  matter.  I  happen  to  know  that 
your  father  is  spending  the  evening  uptown,  so  I  won- 
der who  was  in  the  car  with  Mr.  John  Bruce." 

She  stared  at  him  with  flashing  eyes. 

"I  was!"  she  answered  passionately.  "I  don't  know 
what  you  are  driving  at!  I  never  did  it  before,  but 
father  was  away,  and  Monsieur  de  Lavergne  was  terri- 
bly insistent.  He  said  it  was  for  a  very  special  guest. 


A  DOCTOR  OF  MANY  DEGREES    81 

I — I  didn't,  of  course,  tell  Monsieur  de  Lavergne  that 
father  couldn't  go.  I  only  said  that  I  was  afraid  it 
would  not  be  convenient  to  make  any  loan  to-night. 
But  he  wouldn't  listen  to  a  refusal,  and  so  I  went — 
but  Monsieur  de  Lavergne  had  no  idea  that  it  was 
any  one  but  father  in  the  car." 

Doctor  Crang's  lips  parted  wickedly. 

"Naturally!"  he  snarled.  "I  quite  understand  that 
you  took  good  care  of  that!  Who  drove  you?" 

"Hawkins." 

"Drunk  as  usual,  I  suppose !  Brain  too  fuddled  to 
ask  questions!" 

"That's  not  true!"  she  criea  out  sharply.  "Haw- 
kins hasn't  touched  a  drop  for  a  year." 

"All  right!"  snapped  Doctor  Crang.  "Have  it  that 
way,  then !  Being  in  his  dotage,  he  makes  a  good  blind, 
even  sober.  And  so  you  went  for  a  little  ride  with 
Mr.  John  Bruce  to-night?" 

Claire  Veniza  was  wringing  her  hands  as  she 
glanced  in  an  agony  of  apprehension  at  the  wounded 
man  on  the  floor. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "but — but  won't  you " 

"And  where  did  you  first  meet  Mr.  John  Bruce,  and 
how  long  ago?"  he  jerked  out. 

Claire  Veniza's  great  brown  eyes  widened. 

"Why,  I  never  saw  him  in  my  life  until  to-night!" 
she  exclaimed.  "And  he  wasn't  in  the  car  ten  minutes. 
Hawkins  drove  back  to  the  corner  just  as  he  always 
does  with  father,  and  Mr.  Bruce  got  out.  Then 
Hawkins  drove  me  home  and  went  uptown  to  get 
father.  I — I  wish  they  were  here  now !" 

Doctor  Crang  was  gritting  his  teeth  together.     A 


82  PAWNED 

slight  unnatural  color  was  tinging  his  cheeks.  He 
moved  a  little  closer  to  the  girl. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  never  saw  Mr.  Bruce  before," 
he  said  cunningly.  "You  must  have  traveled  fast  then 
— metaphorically  speaking.  Love  at  first  sight,  eh? 
A  cooing  exchange  of  confidences — or  was  it  all  on  one 
side?  You  told  him  who  you  were,  and  where  you 
lived,  and " 

"I  did  nothing  of  the  kind!"  Claire  Veniza  inter- 
rupted angrily.  "I  did  not  tell  him  anything!" 

"Just  strictly  business  then,  of  course!"  Doctor 
Crang  moved  a  step  still  nearer  to  the  girl.  "In  that 
case  he  must  have  pawned  something,  and  as  Lavergne 
sends  nothing  but  high-priced  articles  to  your  father, 
we  shall  probably  find  quite  a  sum  of  money  in  Mr. 
Bruce's  pockets.  Eh — Claire?" 

She  bit  her  lips.  She  still  did  not  quite  understand 
— only  that  she  bitterly  regretted  now,  somehow,  that 
she  had  removed  the  money  from  John  Bruce's  person; 
only  that  the  drug-crazed  brain  of  the  man  in  front  of 
her  was  digging,  had  dug,  a  trap  into  which  she  was 
falling.  What  answer  was  she  to  make?  What  was 
she  to 

With  a  sudden  cry  she  shrank  back — but  too  late  to 
save  herself.  A  face  alight  with  passion  was  close  to 
hers  now;  hands  that  clamped  like  a  steel  vise,  and  that 
hurt,  were  upon  her  shoulder  and  throat. 

"You  lie !"  Doctor  Crang  shouted  hoarsely.  "You've 
lied  from  the  minute  I  came  into  this  room.  John 
Bruce — hell!  I  know  now  why  you  have  always 
refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  me.  That's  why!" 
He  loosened  one  hand  and  pointed  to  the  figure  on  the 
floor.  "How  long  has  this  been  going  on?  How  long 


A  DOCTOR  OF  MANY  DEGREES    83 

have  you  been  meeting  him?  To-night  is  nothing, 
though  you  worked  it  well.  Hawkins  to  take  you  for 
a  little  joy  ride  with  your  lover  while  father's  away. 
Damned  clever!  You  left  him  on  that  corner — and 
he's  here  wounded !  How  did  he  get  wounded?  You 
never  saw  him  before !  You  never  heard  of  him !  You 
told  him  nothing  about  yourself!  He  didn't  know 
where  you  lived — he  could  only  find  the  private 
entrance!  Just  knows  enough  about  you  to  climb  in 
through  your  back  window  like  a  skewered  dog!  But, 
of  course,  your  story  is  true,  because  in  his  pockets  will 
be  the  money  you  gave  him  for  what  he  pawned !  Shall 
we  look  and  see  how  much  it  was?" 

She  tore  herself  free  and  caught  at  her  throat,  gasp- 
ing for  breath. 

"You — you  beast!"  she  choked.  "No;  you  needn't 
look !  I  took  it  from  him,  and  put  it  in  the  safe  over 
there  before  you  came — to  keep  it  away  from  you." 

Doctor  Crang  swept  a  hand  across  his  eyes  and 
through  his  hair  with  a  savage,  jerky  movement,  and 
then  he  laughed  immoderately. 

"What  a  little  liar  you  are!  Well,  then,  two  can 
play  at  the  same  game.  I  lied  to  you  about  your  lover 
there.  I  said  there  was  nothing  could  save  him.  Yes, 
yes,  Claire,  my  dear,  I  lied."  He  knelt  suddenly,  and 
suddenly  intent  and  professional  studied  John  Bruce's 
face,  and  felt  again  for  the  pulse  beat  at  John  Bruce's 
wrist.  "Pretty  near  the  limit,"  he  stated  coolly. 
"Internal  bleeding."  He  threw  back  his  shoulders  in 
a  strangely  egotistical  way.  "Not  many  men  could 
do  anything;  but  I,  Sydney  Angus  Crang,  could! 
Ha,  ha!  In  ten  minutes  he  could  be  on  the  road  to 


84  PAWNED 

recovery — but  ten  minutes,  otherwise,  is  exactly  the 
length  of  time  he  has  to  live." 

An  instant  Claire  Veniza  stared  at  him.  Her  mind 
reeled  with  chaos,  with  terror  and  dismay. 

"Then  do  something!"  she  implored  wildly.  "If 
you  can  save  him,  do  it!  You  must!  You  shall!" 

"Why  should  I?"  he  demanded.  His  teeth  were 
clamped  hard  together.  "Why  should  I  save  your 
lover?  No — damn  him!" 

She  drew  away  from  him,  and,  suddenly,  on  her 
knees,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  burst  into 
sobs. 

"This — this  is  terrible — terrible !"  she  cried  out. 
"Has  that  frightful  stuff  transformed  you  into  an 
absolute  fiend?  Are  you  no  longer  even  human?" 

Flushed,  a  curious  look  of  hunger  in  his  eyes,  he 
gazed  at  her. 

"I'm  devilishly  human  in  some  respects  I"  His  voice 
rose,  out  of  control.  "I  want  you!  I  have  wanted 
you  from  the  day  I  saw  you." 

She  shivered.  Her  hands  felt  suddenly  icy  as  she 
pressed  them  against  her  face. 

"Thank  God  then,"  she  breathed,  "for  this,  at  least 
— that  you  will  never  get  me!" 

"Won't  I?"  His  voice  rose  higher,  trembling  with 
passion.  "Won't  I  ?  By  God,  I  will !  The  one  thing 
in  life  I  will  have  some  way  or  another!  You  under- 
stand? I  will!  And  do  you  think  I  would  let  him 
stand  in  the  way?  You  drive  me  mad,  Claire,  with 
those  wonderful  eyes  of  yours,  with  that  hair,  those 
lips,  that  throat " 

"Stop !"  She  was  on  her  feet,  and  in  an  instant  had 
reached  him,  and  with  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders 


A  DOCTOR  OF  MANY  DEGREES    85 

was  shaking  him  fiercely  with  all  her  strength.  "I  hated 
you,  despised  you,  loathed  you  before,  but  with  that 
man  dying  here,  you  murderer,  I " 

Her  voice  trailed  off,  strangled,  choked.  He  had 
caught  her  in  his  arms,  his  lips  were  upon  hers.  She 
struggled  like  a  tigress.  And  as  they  lurched  about  the 
room  he  laughed  in  mad  abandon.  She  wrenched  her- 
self free  at  last,  and  slipped  and  fell  upon  the  floor. 

"Do  you  believe  me  now!"  he  panted.  "I  will  have 
you !  Neither  this  man  nor  any  other  will  live  to  get 
you.  His  life  is  a  snap  of  my  fingers — so  is  any  other 
life.  It's  you  I  want,  and  you  I  will  have.  And  I'll 
tame  you  1  Then  I'll  show  you  what  love  is." 

She  was  moaning  now  a  little  to  herself.  She  crept 
to  John  Bruce  and  stared  into  his  face.  Dying!  They 
were  letting  this  man  die.  She  tried  to  readjust  the 
cloths  upon  the  wound.  She  heard  Doctor  Crang  laugh 
at  her  again.  It  seemed  as  though  her  soul  were  sink- 
ing into  some  great  bottomless  abyss  that  was  black 
with  horror.  She  did  not  know  this  John  Bruce.  She 
had  told  Doctor  Crang  so.  It  was  useless  to  repeat  it, 
useless  to  argue  with  a  drug-steeped  brain.  There  was 
only  one  thing  that  was  absolute  and  final,  and  that  was 
that  a  man's  life  was  ebbing  away,  and  a  fiend,  an 
inhuman  fiend  who  could  save  him,  but  whom  pleading 
would  not  touch,  stood  callously  by,  not  wholly  indif- 
ferent, rather  gloating  over  what  took  the  form  of 
triumph  in  his  diseased  mind.  And  then  suddenly  she 
seemed  so  tired  and  weary.  And  she  tried  to  pray  to 
God.  And  tears  came,  and  on  her  knees  she  turned  and 
flung  out  her  arms  imploringly  to  the  unkempt  figure 
that  stood  over  her,  and  who  smiled  as  no  other  man 
she  had  ever  seen  had  smiled  before. 


86  PAWNED 

"For  the  pity  of  God,  for  anything  you  have  ever 
known  in  your  life  that  was  pure  and  sacred,"  she  said 
brokenly,  "save  this  man." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  still  with  that  sar- 
donic smile  upon  his  lips,  and  then,  swift  in  its  transi- 
tion, his  expression  changed  and  cunning  was  in  his 
eyes. 

"What  would  you  give?"  he  purred. 

"Give?"  She  did  not  look  up.  She  felt  a  sudden 
surge  of  relief.  It  debased  the  man  the  more,  for  it 
was  evidently  money  now;  but  her  father  would  supply 
that.  She  had  only  to  ask  for  it.  "What  do  you 
want?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"Yourself,"  said  Doctor  Crang. 

She  looked  up  now,  quickly,  startled ;  read  the  lurk- 
ing triumph  in  his  eyes,  and  with  a  sudden  cry  of  fear 
turned  away  her  head. 

"My — myself!"     Her  lips  scarcely  moved. 

"Yes,  my  dear!  Yourself — Claire!"  Doctor 
Crang  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Edinburgh,  London, 
Vienna,  Paris,  degrees  from  everywhere — ha,  ha! — 
am  I  a  high-priced  man?  Well,  then,  why  don't  you 
dismiss  me?  You  called  me  in!  That  is  my  price — 
or  shall  we  call  it  fee?  Promise  to  marry  me,  Claire, 
and  I'll  save  that  man." 

Her  face  had  lost  all  vestige  of  color.  She  stood 
and  looked  at  him,  but  it  did  not  seem  as  though  she 
any  longer  had  control  over  her  limbs.  She  did  not 
seem  able  to  move  them.  They  were  numbed;  her 
brain  was  mercifully  numbed — there  was  only  a  sense 
of  impending  horror,  without  that  horror  taking  con- 
crete form.  A  voice  came  to  her  as  though  from  some 
great  distance : 


A  DOCTOR  OF  MANY  DEGREES    87 

"Don't  take  too  long  to  make  up  your  mind.  There 
isn't  much  time.  It's  about  touch  and  go  with  him 
now." 

The  words,  the  tone,  the  voice  roused  her.  Real- 
ization, understanding  swept  upon  her.  A  faintness 
came.  She  closed  her  eyes,  swayed  unsteadily,  but 
recovered  herself.  Something  made  her  look  at  the 
upturned  face  on  the  floor.  She  did  not  know  this 
man.  He  was  nothing  to  her.  Why  was  he  pleading 
with  her  to  pawn  herself  for  him?  What  right  had  he 
to  ask  for  worse  than  death  from  her  that  he  might 
live?  Her  soul  turned  sick  within  her.  If  she  refused, 
this  man  would  die.  Death!  It  was  a  very  little 
thing  compared  with  days  and  months  and  years  linked, 
fettered,  bound  to  a  drug  fiend,  a  coward,  a  foul  thing, 
a  potential  murderer,  a  man  only  in  the  sense  of 
physical  form,  who  had  abused  every  other  God-given 
attribute  until  it  had  rotted  away!  Her  hands  pressed 
to  her  temples  fiercely,  in  torment.  Was  this  man  to 
live  or  die?  In  her  hands  was  balanced  a  human  life. 
It  seemed  as  though  she  must  scream  out  in  her  anguish 
of  soul;  and  then  it  seemed  as  though  she  must  fling 
herself  upon  the  drug-crazed  being  who  had  forced  this 
torture  upon  her,  fling  herself  upon  him  to  batter  and 
pommel  with  her  fists  at  his  face  that  smiled  in  hideous 
contentment  at  her.  What  was  she  to  do?  The  choice 
was  hers.  To  let  this  man  here  die,  or  to  accept  a 
living  death  for  herself — no,  worse  than  that — some- 
thing that  was  abominable,  revolting,  that  profaned 
....  She  drew  her  breath  in  sharply.  She  was  staring 
at  the  man  on  the  floor.  His  eyelids  fluttered  and 
opened.  Gray  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  eyes  that  did 
not  seem  to  see  for  there  was  a  vacant  stare  in  them — 


88  PAWNED 

and  then  suddenly  recognition  crept  into  them  and  they 
lighted  up,  full  of  a  strange,  glad  wonder.  He  made  an 
effort  to  speak,  an  effort,  more  feeble  still,  to  reach  out 
his  hand  to  her — and  then  the  eyes  had  closed  and  he 
was  unconscious  again. 

She  turned  slowly  and  faced  Doctor  Crang. 

"You  do  not  know  what  you  are  doing."  She  formed 
the  words  with  a  great  effort. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do!"  he  answered  with  mocking  delib- 
eration. "I  know  that  if  I  can't  get  you  one  way,  I  can 
another — and  the  way  doesn't  matter." 

"God  forgive  you,  then,"  she  said  in  a  dead  voice, 
"for  I  never  can  or  will!  I — I  agree." 

He  took  a  step  toward  her. 

"You'll  marry  me?"  His  face  was  fired  with  pas- 
sion. 

She  retreated  a  step. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

He  reached  out  for  her  with  savage  eagerness. 

"Claire!"  he  cried.    "Claire!" 

She  pushed  him  back  with  both  hands. 

"Not  yet!"  she  said,  and  tried  to  steady  her  voice. 
"There  is  another  side  to  the  bargain.  The  price  is 
this  man's  life.  If  he  lives  I  will  marry  you,  and  in 
that  case,  as  you  well  know,  I  can  say  nothing  of  what 
you  have  done  to-night;  but  if  he  dies,  I  am  not  only 
free,  but  I  will  do  my  utmost  to  make  you  criminally 
responsible  for  his  death." 

"Ah!"  Doctor  Crang  stared  at  her.  His  hands, 
still  reaching  out  to  touch  her,  trembled;  his  face  was 
hectic;  his  eyes  were  alight  again  with  feverish  hun- 
ger— and  then  suddenly  the  man  seemed  transformed 
;nto  another  being.  He  was  on  his  knees  beside  John 


A  DOCTOR  OF  MANY  DEGREES    89 

Bruce,  and  had  opened  his  handbag  in  an  instant,  and 
in  another  he  had  forced  something  from  a  vial 
between  John  Bruce's  lips;  then  an  instrument  was  in 
his  hands.  The  man  of  a  moment  before  was  gone; 
one  Sydney  Angus  Crang,  of  many  degrees,  profes- 
sional, deft,  immersed  in  his  work,  had  taken  the 
other's  place.  "More  water!  An  extra  basin!"  he 
ordered  curtly. 

Claire  Veniza  obeyed  him  in  a  mechanical  way.  Her 
brain  was  numbed,  exhausted,  possessed  of  a  great 
weariness.  She  watched  him  for  a  little  while.  He 
flung  another  order  at  her. 

"Make  that  couch  up  into  a  bed,"  he  directed.  "He 
can't  be  moved  even  upstairs  to-night." 

Again  she  obeyed  him;  finally  she  helped  him  to  lift 
John  Bruce  to  the  couch. 

She  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  waited — she  did  not 
know  what  for.  Doctor  Crang  had  drawn  another 
chair  to  the  couch  and  sat  there  watching  his  patient. 
John  Bruce,  as  far  as  she  could  tell,  showed  no  sign  of 
life. 

Then  Doctor  Crang's  voice  seemed  to  float  out  of 
nothingness : 

"He  will  live,  Claire,  my  dear!  By  God,  I'd  like 
to  have  done  that  piece  of  work  in  a  clinic!  Some  of 
'em  would  sit  up !  D'ye  hear,  Claire,  he'll  live  1" 

She  was  conscious  that  he  was  studying  her;  she  did 
not  look  at  him,  nor  did  she  answer. 

An  eternity  seemed  to  pass.  She  heard  a  motor  stop 
outside  in  front  of  the  house.  That  would  be  her 
father  and  Hawkins. 

The  front  door  opened  and  closed,  footsteps  en- 


90  PAWNED 

tered  the  room — and  suddenly  seemed  to  quicken  and 
hurry  forward.  She  rose  from  her  chair. 

"What's  this?  What's  the  matter?  What's  hap- 
pened?" a  tall,  white-haired  man  cried  out. 

It  was  Doctor  Crang  who  answered. 

"Oh — this,  Mr.  Veniza?"  He  waved  his  hand 
indifferently  toward  the  couch.  "Nothing  of  any 
importance."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  cool 
imperturbability,  and  smiled  into  the  grave,  serious 
face  of  Paul  Veniza.  "The  really  important  thing  is 
that  Claire  has  promised  to  be  my  wife." 

For  an  instant  no  one  moved  or  spoke — only  Doctor 
Crang  still  smiled.  And  then  the  silence  was  broken 
by  a  curious  half  laugh,  half  curse  that  was  full  of 
menace. 

"You  lie!"  Hawkins,  the  round,  red-faced  chauf- 
feur, had  stepped  from  behind  Paul  Veniza,  and  now 
faced  Doctor  Crang.  "You  lie  I  You  damned  coke- 
eater!  I'd  kill  you  first!" 

"Drunk — again!"  drawled  Doctor  Crang  con- 
temptuously. "And  what  have  you  to  do  with  it?" 

"Steady,  Hawkins!"  counselled  Paul  Veniza  quietly. 
He  turned  to  Claire  Veniza.  "Claire,"  he  asked,  "is 
— is  this  true?" 

She  nodded — and  suddenly,  blindly,  started  toward 
the  door. 

"It  is  true,"  she  said. 

"Claire!"  Paul  Veniza  stepped  after  her.  "Claire, 
you " 

"Not  to-night,  father,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"Please  let  me  go." 

He  stood  aside,  allowing  her  to  pass,  his  face  grave 


A  DOCTOR  OF  MANY  DEGREES    91 

and  anxious — and  then  he  turned  again  to  Doctor 
Crang. 

"She  is  naturally  very  upset  over  what  has  hap- 
pened here,"  said  Doctor  Crang  easily — and  suddenly 
reaching  out  grasped  Hawkins'  arm,  and  pulled  the  old 
man  forward  to  the  couch.  "Here,  you!"  he  jerked 
out.  "You've  got  so  much  to  say  for  yourself — take 
a  look  at  this  fellow!" 

The  old  chauffeur  bent  over  the  couch. 

"My  God!"  he  cried  out  in  a  startled  way.  "It's  the 
man  we — I — drove  to-night!" 

"Quite  so !"  observed  Doctor  Crang.  He  smiled  at 
Paul  Veniza  again.  "Apart  from  the  fact  that  the 
fellow  came  in  through  that  window  with  a  knife  stab 
in  his  side  that's  pretty  nearly  done  for  him,  Hawkins 
knows  as  much  about  it  as  either  Claire  or  I  do.  He's 
in  bad  shape.  Extremely  serious.  I  will  stay  with 
him  to-night.  He  cannot  be  moved."  He  nodded  sug- 
gestively toward  the  door.  "Hawkins  can  tell  you  as 
much  as  I  can.  It's  got  to  be  quiet  in  here.  As  for 
Claire" — he  seemed  suddenly  to  be  greatly  disturbed 
and  occupied  with  the  condition  of  the  wounded  man 
on  the  couch — "that  will  have  to  wait  until  morning. 
This  man's  condition  is  critical.  I  can't  put  you  out  of 
your  own  room,  but  "  Again  he  nodded  toward 
the  door. 

For  a  moment  Paul  Veniza  hesitated — but  Doctor 
Crang's  back  was  already  turned,  and  he  was  bending 
over  the  wounded  man,  apparently  oblivious  to  every 
other  consideration.  He  motioned  to  Hawkins,  and 
the  two  left  the  room. 

Doctor  Crang  looked  around  over  his  shoulder  as 
the  door  closed.  A  malicious  grin  spread  over  his 


92  PAWNED 

face.  He  rubbed  his  hands  together.  Then  he  sat 
down  in  his  chair  again,  and  began  to  prepare  a  solu- 
tion for  his  hypodermic  syringe. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Doctor  Crang  softly,  addressing  the 
unconscious  form  of  John  Bruce,  "you'll  live,  all  right, 
my  friend,  I'll  see  to  that,  though  the  odds  are  still 
against  you.  You're  too — ha,  ha! — valuable  to  die! 
You  played  in  luck  when  you  drew  Sydney  Angus 
Crang,  M.D.,  as  your  attending  physician!" 

And  then  Doctor  Sydney  Angus  Crang  made  a  little 
grimace  as  he  punctured  the  flesh  of  his  arm  with  the 
needle  of  the  hypodermic  syringe  and  injected  into 
himself  another  dose  of  cocaine. 

"Yes,"  said  Doctor  Sydney  Angus  Crang  very 
softly,  his  eyes  lighting,  "too  valuable,  much  too  valu- 
able— to  diel" 


—  V  — 

HAWKINS 

IN  the  outer  room,  the  door  closed  behind  them, 
Paul  Veniza  and  Hawkins  stared  into  each  other's 
eyes.  Hawkins'  face  had  lost  its  ruddy,  weather- 
beaten  color,  and  there  was  a  strained,  perplexed 
anxiety  in  his  expression. 

"D'ye  hear  what  she  said?"  he  mumbled.  "D'ye 
hear  what  he  said?  Going  to  be  married!  My  little 
girl,  my  innocent  little  girl,  and — and  that  dope- 
feeding  devil!  I — I  don't  understand,  Paul.  What's 
it  mean?" 

Paul  Veniza  laid  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder, 
as  much  to  seek,  it  seemed,  as  to  offer  sympathy.  He 
shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  blankly. 

Hawkins'  watery  blue  eyes  under  their  shaggy 
brows  traveled  miserably  in  the  direction  of  the  stair- 
case. 

"I — I  ain't  got  the  right,"  he  choked.  "You  go  up 
and  talk  to  her,  Paul." 

Paul  Veniza  ran  his  fingers  in  a  troubled  way 
through  his  white  hair;  then,  nodding  his  head,  he 
turned  abruptly  and  began  to  mount  the  stairs. 

Hawkins  watched  until  the  other  had  disappeared 
from  sight,  watched  until  he  heard  a  door  open  and 
close  softly  above ;  then  he  swung  sharply  around,  and 

93 


94  PAWNED 

with  his  old,  drooping  shoulders  suddenly  squared, 
strode  toward  the  door  that  shut  him  off  from  Doctor 
Crang  and  the  man  he  had  recognized  as  his  passenger 
in  the  traveling  pawn-shop  earlier  that  night.  But  at 
the  door  itself  he  hesitated,  and  after  a  moment  drew 
back,  and  the  shoulders  drooped  again,  and  he  fell  to 
twisting  his  hands  together  in  nervous  indecision  as  he 
retreated  to  the  center  of  the  room. 

And  he  stood  there  again,  where  Paul  Veniza  had 
left  him,  and  stared  with  the  hurt  of  a  dumb  animal 
in  his  eyes  at  the  top  of  the  staircase. 

"It's  all  my  fault,"  the  old  man  whispered,  and  fell 
to  twisting  his  hands  together  once  more.  "But — but 
I  thought  she'd  be  safe  with  me." 

For  a  long  time  he  seemed  to  ponder  his  own  words, 
and  gradually  they  seemed  to  bring  an  added  burden 
upon  him,  and  heavily  now  he  drew  his  hand  across  his 
eyes. 

"Why  ain't  I  dead?"  he  whispered.  "I  ain't  never 
been  no  good  to  her.  Twenty  years,  it  is — twenty 
years.  Just  old  Hawkins — shabby  old  Hawkins — that 
she  loves  'cause  she's  sorry  for  him." 

Hawkins'  eyes  roved  about  the  room. 

"I  remember  the  night  I  brought  her  here."  He 
was  still  whispering  to  himself.  "In  there,  it  was,  I 
took  her."  He  jerked  his  hand  toward  the  inner  room. 
"This  here  room  was  the  pawn-shop  then.  God,  all 
those  years  ago — and — and  I  ain't  never  bought  her 
back  again,  and  she  ain't  known  no  father  but  Paul, 
and "  His  voice  trailed  off  and  died  away. 

He  sank  his  chin  in  his  hands. 

Occasionally  he  heard  the  murmur  of  voices  from 
above,  occasionally  the  sound  of  movement  through  the 


HAWKINS  95 

closed  door  that  separated  him  from  Doctor  Crang; 
but  he  did  not  move  or  speak  again  until  Paul  Veniza 
came  down  the  stairs  and  stood  before  him. 

Hawkins  searched  the  other's  face. 

"It — it  ain't  true,  is  it,  what  she  said?"  he  ques- 
tioned almost  fiercely.  "She  didn't  really  mean  it,  did 
she,  Paul?" 

Paul  Veniza  turned  his  head  away. 

"Yes,  she  meant  it,"  he  answered  in  a  low  voice. 
"I  don't  understand.  She  wouldn't  give  me  any  expla- 
nation." 

Hawkins  clenched  his  fists  suddenly. 

"But  didn't  you  tell  her  what  kind  of  a  man  Crang 
is?  Good  God,  Paul,  didn't  you  tell  her  what  he  is?" 

"She  knows  it  without  my  telling  her,"  Paul  Veniza 
said  in  a  dull  tone.  "But  I  told  her  again;  I  told  her 
it  was  impossible,  incredible.  Her  only  answer  was 
that  it  was  inevitable." 

"But  she  doesn't  love  him!  She  can't  love  him!" 
Hawkins  burst  out.  "There's  never  been  anything 
between  them  before." 

"No,  she  doesn't  love  him.  Of  course,  she  doesn't  I" 
Paul  Veniza  said,  as  though  speaking  to  himself.  He 
looked  at  Hawkins  suddenly  under  knitted  brows. 
"And  she  says  she  never  saw  that  other  man  in  her  life 
before  until  he  stepped  into  the  car.  She  says  she  only 
went  out  to-night  because  they  were  so  urgent  about 
it  up  at  the  house,  and  that  she  felt  everything  would 
be  perfectly  safe  with  you  driving  the  car.  I  can't 
make  anything  out  of  itl" 

Hawkins  drew  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  across  his  brow. 
It  was  cool  in  the  room,  but  little  beads  of  moisture 
were  standing  out  on  his  forehead. 


96  PAWNED 

"I  ain't  brought  her  nothing  but  harm  all  my  life," 
he  said  brokenly.  "I " 

"Don't  take  it  that  way,  old  friend!"  Paul 
Veniza's  hands  sought  the  other's  shoulders.  "I  don't 
see  how  you  are  to  blame  for  this.  Claire  said  that 
other  man  treated  her  with  all  courtesy,  and  left  the 
car  after  you  had  gone  around  the  block;  and  she 
doesn't  know  how  he  afterwards  came  here  wounded 
any  more  than  we  do — and  anyway,  it  can't  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  her  marrying  Doctor  Crang." 

"What's  she  doing  now?"  demanded  Hawkins 
abruptly.  "She's  up  there  crying  her  heart  out,  ain't 
she?" 

Paul  Veniza  did  not  answer. 

Hawkins  straightened  up.  A  sudden  dignity  came 
to  the  shabby  old  figure. 

"What  hold  has  that  devil  got  on  my  little  girl?" 
he  cried  out  sharply.  "I'll  make  him  pay  for  it,  so 
help  me  God!  My  little  girl,  my  little " 

"S-sh!"  Paul  Veniza  caught  hurriedly  at  Hawkins' 
arm.  "Be  careful,  old  friend!"  he  warned.  "Not  so 
loud!  She  might  hear  you." 

Hawkins  cast  a  timorous,  startled  glance  in  the 
direction  of  the  stairs.  He  seemed  to  shrink  again 
into  a  stature  as  shabby  as  his  clothing.  His  lips 
twitched ;  he  twisted  his  hands  together. 

"Yes,"  he  mumbled;  "yes,  she — she  might  hear  me." 
He  stared  around  the  room;  and  then,  as  though 
blindly,  his  hands  groping  out  in  front  of  him,  he 
started  for  the  street  door.  "I'm  going  home,"  said 
Hawkins.  "I'm  going  home  to  think  this  out." 

Paul  Veniza's  voice  choked  a  little. 

"Your  hat,  old  friend,"  he  said,  picking  up  the  old 


HAWKINS  97 

man's  hat  from  the  table  and  following  the  other  to 
the  door* 

"Yes,  my  hat,"  said  Hawkins — and  pulling  it  far 
down  over  his  eyes,  crossed  the  sidewalk,  and  climbed 
into  the  driver's  seat  of  the  old,  closed  car  that  stood 
at  the  curb. 

He  started  the  car  mechanically.  He  did  not  look 
back.  He  stared  straight  ahead  of  him  except  when, 
at  the  corner,  his  eyes  lifted  and  held  for  a  moment  on 
the  lighted  windows  and  the  swinging  doors  of  a 
saloon — and  the  car  went  perceptibly  slower.  Then 
his  hands  tightened  fiercely  in  their  hold  upon  the  wheel 
until  the  white  of  the  knuckles  showed,  and  the  car 
passed  the  saloon  and  turned  the  next  corner  and 
went  on. 

Halfway  down  the  next  block  it  almost  came  to  a 
halt  again  when  opposite  a  dark  and  dingy  driveway 
that  led  in  between,  and  to  the  rear  of,  two  poverty- 
stricken  frame  houses.  Hawkins  stared  at  this  unin- 
viting prospect,  and  made  as  though  to  turn  the  car 
into  the  driveway;  then,  shaking  his  head  heavily,  he 
continued  on  along  the  street. 

"I  can't  go  in  there  and  sit  by  myself  all  alone," 
said  Hawkins  hoarsely.  "I — I'd  go  mad.  It's — it's 
like  as  though  they'd  told  me  to-night  that  she'd  died 
— same  as  they  told  me  about  her  mother  the  night  I 
went  to  Paul's." 

The  car  moved  slowly  onward.  It  turned  the  next 
corner — and  the  next.  It  almost  completed  the  cir- 
cuit of  the  block.  Hawkins  now  was  wetting  his  lips 
with  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  His  hands  on  the  wheel 
were  trembling.  The  car  had  stopped.  Hawkins  was 


98  PAWNED 

staring  again  at  the  lighted  windows  and  the  swinging 
doors  of  the  saloon. 

He  sat  for  a  long  time  motionless;  then  he  climbed 
down  from  his  seat. 

"Just  one,"  Hawkins  whispered  to  himself.  "Just 
one.  I — I'd  go  mad  if  I  didn't." 

Hawkins  pushed  the  swinging  doors  open,  and  sidled 
up  to  the  bar. 

"Hello,  Hawkins!"  grinned  the  barkeeper.  "Been 
out  of  town?  I  ain't  seen  you  the  whole  afternoon!" 

"You  mind  your  own  business!"  said  Hawkins  sur- 
lily. 

"Sure!"  nodded  the  barkeeper  cheerily.  "Same  as 
usual?"  He  slid  a  square-faced  bottle  and  a  glass 
toward  the  old  man. 

Hawkins  helped  himself  and  drank  moodily.  He 
set  his  empty  glass  back  on  the  bar,  jerked  down  his 
shabby  vest  and  straightened  up,  his  eyes  resolutely 
fixed  on  the  door.  Then  he  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his 
pipe  and  tobacco.  His  eyes  shifted  from  the  door  to 
his  pipe.  He  filled  it  slowly. 

"Give  me  another,"  said  Hawkins  presently — with- 
out looking  at  the  barkeeper. 

Again  the  old  man  drank,  and  jerked  down  his  vest, 
and  squared  his  thin  shoulders.  He  lighted  his  pipe, 
tamping  the  bowl  carefully  with  his  forefinger.  His 
eyes  sought  the  swinging  doors  once  more. 

"I'm  going  home,"  said  Hawkins  defiantly  to  him- 
self. "I've  got  to  think  this  out."  He  dug  into  his 
vest  pocket  for  money,  and  produced  a  few  small  bills. 
He  stared  at  these  for  a  moment,  hesitated,  started  to 
replace  them  in  his  pocket,  hesitated  again,  and  the  tip 
of  his  tongue  circled  his  lips;  then  he  pushed  the  money 


HAWKINS  99 

across  the  bar.  "Take  the  drinks  out  of  that,  and — 
and  give  me  a  bottle,"  he  said.  "I — I  don't  like  to  be 
without  anything  in  the  house,  and  I  got  to  go  home." 

"You  said  something J"  said  the  barkeeper.    "Have 
one  on  the  house  before  you  go  ?" 
"No;  I  won't." 

"No,"    said    Hawkins    with    stern    determination. 

Hawkins  crowded  the  bottle  into  the  side  pocket 
of  his  coat,  passed  out  through  the  swinging  doors, 
and  resumed  his  seat  on  the  car.  And  again  the  car 
started  forward.  But  it  went  faster  now.  Hawkins' 
face  was  flushed;  he  seemed  nervously  and  excitedly  in 
haste.  At  the  driveway  he  turned  in,  garaged  his  car 
in  an  old  shed  at  the  rear  of  one  of  the  houses,  locked 
the  shed  with  a  padlock,  and,  by  way  of  the  back  door, 
entered  the  house  that  was  in  front  of  the  shed. 

It  was  quite  dark  insjde,  but  Hawkins  had  been  an 
inmate  of  the  somewhat  seedy  rooming-house  too  many 
years  either  to  expect  that  a  light  should  be  burning 
at  that  hour,  or,  for  that  matter,  to  require  any  light. 
He  groped  his  way  up  a  flight  of  creaking  stairs, 
opened  the  door  of  a  room,  and  stepped  inside.  He 
shut  the  door  behind  him,  locked  it,  and  struck  a  match. 
A  gas-jet  wheezed  asthmatically,  and  finally  flung  a 
thin  and  sullen  yellow  glow  about  the  place.  It  dis- 
closed a  cot  bed,  a  small  strip  of  carpet  long  since  worn 
bare  of  nap,  a  washstand,  an  old  trunk,  a  battered 
table,  and  two  chairs. 

Hawkins,  with  some  difficulty,  extricated  the  bottle 
from  his  pocket,  and  lifted  the  lid  of  his  trunk.  He 
thrust  the  bottle  inside,  and  in  the  act  of  closing  the 
lid  upon  it — hesitated. 

"I — I  ain't  myself  to-night,  I  ain't,"  said  Hawkins 


ioo  PAWNED 

tremulously.  "It's  shook  me,  it  has — bad.  Just  one 
— so  help  me  God  I — just  one." 

Hawkins  sat  down  at  the  table  with  the  bottle  in 
front  of  him. 

And  while  Hawkins  sat  there  it  grew  very  late. 

At  intervals  Hawkins  talked  to  himself.  At  times 
he  stared  owlishly  from  a  half-emptied  bottle  to  the 
black  square  of  window  pane  above  the  trunk — and 
once  he  shook  his  fist  in  that  direction. 

"Crang — eh — damn  you!"  he  gritted  out.  "You 
think  you  got  her,  do  you  ?  Some  dirty,  cunning  trick 
you've  played  her!  But  you  don't  know  old  Hawkins. 
Ha,  ha !  You  think  he's  only  a  drunken  bum !" 

Hawkins,  as  it  grew  later  still,  became  unsteady  in 
his  seat.  Gradually  his  head  sank  down  upon  the 
table. 

"I — hie! — gotta  think  this — out,"  said  Hawkins 
earnestly — and  fell  asleep. 


—  VI -^ 

THE  ALIBI 

JOHN  BRUCE  opened  his  eyes  dreamily,  unsee- 
ingly;  and  then  his  eyelids  fluttered  and  closed 
again.  There  was  an  exquisite  sense  of  languor 
upon  him,  of  cool,  comfortable  repose;  a  curious 
absence  of  all  material  things.  It  seemed  as  though 
he  were  in  some  suspended  state  of  animation. 

It  was  very  strange.  It  wasn't  life — not  life  as  he 
had  ever  known  it.  Perhaps  it  was  death.  He  did 
not  understand. 

He  tried  to  think.  He  was  conscious  that  his  mind 
for  some  long  indeterminate  period  had  been  occupied 
with  the  repetition  of  queer,  vague,  broken  snatches 
of  things,  fantastic  things  born  of  illusions,  brain  fan- 
cies, cobwebby,  intangible,  which  had  no  meaning,  and 
were  without  beginning  or  end.  There  was  a  white 
beach,  very  white,  and  a  full  round  moon,  and  the 
moon  winked  knowingly  while  he  whittled  with  a  huge 
jack-knife  at  a  quill  toothpick.  And  then  there  was  a 
great  chasm  of  blackness  which  separated  the  beach 
from  some  other  place  that  seemed  to  have  nothing  to 
identify  it  except  this  black  chasm  which  was  the 
passageway  to  it;  and  here  a  man's  face,  a  face  that 
was  sinister  in  its  expression,  and  both  repulsive  and 
unhealthy  in  its  color,  was  constantly  bending  over 
him,  and  the  man's  head  was  always  in  the  same 

1 01 


102  PAWNED 

posture — cocked  a  little  to  one  side,  as  though  listening 
intently  and  straining  to  hear  something.  And  then, 
in  the  same  place,  but  less  frequently,  there  was 
another  face — and  this  seemed  to  bring  with  it  always 
a  shaft  of  warm,  bright  sunlight  that  dispelled  the 
abominable  gloom,  and  before  which  the  first  face 
vanished — a  beautiful,  the  wondrously  beautiful,  face 
of  a  girl,  one  that  he  had  seen  somewhere  before,  that 
was  haunting  in  its  familiarity  and  for  which  it  seemed 
he  had  always  known  a  great  yearning,  but  which 
plagued  him  miserably  because  there  seemed  to  be 
some  unseen  barrier  between  them,  and  because  he 
could  not  recognize  her,  and  she  could  not  speak  and 
tell  him  who  she  was. 

John  Bruce  opened  his  eyes  again.  Dimly,  faintly, 
his  mind  seemed  to  be  grasping  coherent  realities.  He 
began  to  remember  fragments  of  the  past,  but  it  was 
very  hard  to  piece  those  fragments  together  into  a 
concrete  whole.  That  white  beach — yes,  he  remem- 
bered that.  And  the  quill  toothpick.  Only  the  huge 
jack-knife  was  absurd!  It  was  at  Apia  with  Larmon. 
But  he  was  in  a  room  somewhere  now,  and  lying  on  a 
cot  of  some  sort.  And  it  was  night.  How  had  he 
come  here? 

He  moved  a  little,  and  suddenly  felt  a  twinge  of 
pain  in  his  side.  His  hand  groped  under  the  covering, 
and  his  fingers  came  into  contact  with  bandages  that 
were  wrapped  tightly  around  his  body. 

And  then  in  a  flash  memory  returned.  He  remem- 
bered the  fight  in  Ratti's  wine  shop,  the  knife  stab,  and 
how  he  had  dragged  himself  along  the  lane  and 
climbed  in  through  her  window.  His  eyes  now  in  a 
startled  way  were  searching  his  surroundings.  Per- 


THE  ALIBI  103 

haps  this  was  the  room  1  He  could  not  be  quite  sure, 
but  there  seemed  to  be  something  familiar  about  it. 
The  light  was  very  low,  like  a  gas-jet  turned  down,  and 
he  could  not  make  out  where  it  came  from,  nor  could 
he  see  any  window  through  which  he  might  have 
climbed  in. 

He  frowned  in  a  troubled  way.  It  was  true  that, 
as  he  had  climbed  in  that  night,  he  had  not  been  in  a 
condition  to  take  much  note  of  the  room,  but  yet  it  did 
seem  to  be  the  same  place.  The  frown  vanished. 
What  did  it  matter  ?  He  knew  now  beyond  any  ques- 
tion whose  face  it  was  that  had  come  to  him  so  often 
in  that  shaft  of  sunlight.  Yes,  it  did  matter!  He 
must  have  been  unconscious,  perhaps  for  only  a  few 
hours,  perhaps  for  days,  but  if  this  was  the  same  place, 
then  she  was  here,  not  as  a  figment  of  the  brain,  not 
as  one  created  out  of  his  own  longing,  but  here  in  her 
actual  person,  a  living,  breathing  reality.  It  was  the 
girl  of  the  traveling  pawn-shop,  and 

John  Bruce  found  himself  listening  with  sudden 
intentness.  Was  he  drifting  back  into  unconsciousness 
again,  into  that  realm  of  unreal  things,  where  the  mind, 
fevered  and  broken,  wove  out  of  its  sick  imagination 
queer,  meaningless  fancies?  It  was  strange  that  unreal 
things  should  seem  so  real !  Wasn't  that  an  animal  of 
some  sort  scratching  at  the  wall  of  the  house  outside? 

He  lifted  his  head  slightly  from  the  pillow — and 
held  it  there.  A  voice  from  within  the  room  reached 
him  in  an  angry,  rasping  whisper: 

"Damn  you,  Birdie,  why  don't  you  pull  the  house 
down  and  have  done  with  it?  You  clumsy  hog!  Do 
you  want  the  police  on  us?  Can't  you  climb  three  feet 
without  waking  up  the  whole  of  New  York?" 


104  PAWNED 

John  Bruce's  lips  drew  together  until  they  formed  a 
tight,  straight  line.  This  was  strange !  Very  strange ! 
It  wasn't  a  vagary  of  his  brain  this  time.  His  brain 
was  as  clear  now  as  it  had  ever  been  in  his  life.  The 
voice  came  from  beyond  the  head  of  his  cot.  He  had 
seen  no  one  in  the  room,  but  that  was  natural  enough 
since  from  the  position  in  which  he  was  lying  his  line 
of  vision  was  decidedly  restricted;  what  seemed  incom- 
prehensible though,  taken  in  conjunction  with  the 
words  he  had  just  heard,  was  that  his  own  presence 
there  appeared  to  be  completely  ignored. 

He  twisted  his  head  around  cautiously,  and  found 
that  the  head  of  the  cot  was  surrounded  by  a  screen. 
He  nodded  to  himself  a  little  grimly.  That  accounted 
for  it!  There  was  a  scraping  sound  now,  and  heavy, 
labored  breathing. 

John  Bruce  silently  and  stealthily  stretched  out  his 
arm.  He  could  just  reach  the  screen.  It  was  made  of 
some  soft,  silken  material,  and  his  fingers  found  no 
difficulty  in  drawing  this  back  a  little  from  the  edge  of 
that  portion  of  the  upright  framework  which  was 
directly  in  front  of  him. 

He  scarcely  breathed  now.  Perhaps  he  was  in  so 
weak  a  state  that  his  mind  faltered  if  crowded,  for 
there  was  so  much  to  see  that  he  could  not  seem  to 
grasp  it  all  as  a  single  picture.  He  gazed  fascinated. 
The  details  came  slowly — one  by  one.  It  was  the 
room  where  he  had  crawled  in  through  the  window  and 
had  fallen  senseless  to  the  floor — whenever  that  had 
been!  That  was  the  window  there.  And,  curiously 
enough,  another  man  was  crawling  in  through  it  now  I 
And  there  was  whispering.  And  two  other  men  were 
already  standing  in  the  room,  but  he  could  not  see  their 


THE  ALIBI  105 

faces  because  their  backs  were  turned  to  him.  Then 
one  of  the  two  swung  around  in  the  direction  of  the 
window,  bringing  his  face  into  view.  John  Bruce 
closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment.  Yes,  it  must  be  that! 
His  mind  was  off  wandering  once  more,  painting  and 
picturing  for  itself  its  fanciful  unrealities,  bringing 
back  again  the  character  it  had  created,  the  man  with 
the  sinister  face  whose  pallor  was  unhealthy  and 
repulsive. 

And  then  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  again,  and 
the  face  was  still  there — and  it  was  real.  And  now 
the  man  spoke : 

"Come  on,  get  busy,  Birdie !  If  you  take  as  long  to 
crack  the  box  as  you  have  taken  to  climb  in  through 
a  low  window,  maybe  we'll  be  invited  to  breakfast  with 
the  family !  You  act  just  like  a  swell  cracksman — not ! 
But  here's  the  combination — so  try  and  play  up  to  the 
part!" 

The  man  addressed  was  heavy  of  build,  with  a  pock- 
marked and  forbidding  countenance.  He  was  panting 
from  his  exertions,  as,  inside  the  room  now,  he  leaned 
against  the  sill. 

"That's  all  right,  Doc!"  he  grunted.  "That's  all 
right !  But  how  about  his  nibs  over  there  behind  the 
screen?  Ain't  he  ever  comin'  out  of  his  nap?" 

The  man  addressed  as  "Doc"  rolled  up  the  sleeve 
of  his  left  arm,  and  produced  a  hypodermic  syringe 
from  his  pocket. 

"There's  the  safe  over  there,  Birdie,"  he  drawled, 
as  he  pricked  his  arm  with  the  needle  and  pushed  home 
the  plunger.  "Get  busy  I" 

The  big  man  shuffled  his  feet. 

"I  know  you  know  your  business,  Doc,"  he  said 


io6  PAWNED 

uneasily;  "but  I  guess  me  an'  Pete  here'd  feel  more 
comfortable  if  you'd  have  put  that  shot  of  coke  into 
the  guy  I'm  speakin'  about  instead  of  into  yourself. 
Ain't  I  right,  Pete?" 

The  third  man  was  lounging  against  the  wall,  his 
back  still  turned  to  John  Bruce. 

"Sure,"  he  said;  "but  I  guess  you  can  leave  it  to 
Doc.  A  guy  that's  been  pawin'  the  air  for  two  days 
ain't  likely  to  butt  in  much  all  of  a  sudden." 

The  man  with  the  hypodermic,  in  the  act  of 
replacing  the  syringe  in  his  pocket,  drew  it  out  again. 

"Coming  from  you,  Birdie,"  he  murmured  causti- 
cally, "that's  a  surprisingly  bright  idea.  I've  been 
here  for  the  last  three  hours  listening  to  his  interest- 
ing addresses  from  the  rostrum  of  delirium,  and  I 
should  say  he  was  quite  safe.  Still,  to  oblige  you, 
Birdie,  and  make  you  feel  more  comfortable,  we'll  act 
on  your  suggestion." 

John  Bruce's  teeth  gritted  together.  How  weak  he 
was!  His  arm  ached  from  even  the  slight  strain  of 
extending  it  beyond  his  head  to  the  screen. 

And  then  he  smiled  grimly.  But  it  wasn't  a  case 
of  strength  now,  was  it?  He  was  obviously  quite  help- 
less in  that  respect.  This  man  they  called  Doc  believed 
him  to  be  still  unconscious,  and — he  drew  his  arm 
silently  back,  tucked  it  again  under  the  sheet  and 
blanket  that  covered  him,  and  closed  his  eyes — and 
even  if  he  could  resist,  which  he  couldn't,  a  hypodermic 
injection  of  morphine,  or  cocaine,  or  whatever  it  was 
that  the  supreme  crook  of  the  trio  indulged  in,  could 
not  instantly  take  effect.  There  ought  to  be  time 
enough  to  watch  at  least 

John  Bruce  lay  perfectly  still.    He  heard  a  footstep 


THE  ALIBI  107 

come  quickly  around  the  screen;  he  sensed  the  presence 
of  some  one  bending  over  him ;  then  the  coverings  were 
pulled  down  and  his  arm  was  bared.  He  steeled  him- 
self against  the  instinctive  impulse  to  wince  at  the 
sharp  prick  of  the  needle  which  he  knew  was  coming — 
and  felt  instead  a  cold  and  curiously  merciless  rage 
sweep  over  him  as  the  act  was  performed.  Then  the 
footstep  retreated — and  John  Bruce  quietly  twisted 
his  head  around  on  the  pillow,  reached  out  his  arm, 
and  his  fingers  drew  the  silk  panel  of  the  screen  slightly 
away  from  the  edge  of  the  framework  again. 

He  could  see  the  safe  they  had  referred  to  now. 
It  was  over  at  the  far  side  of  the  room  against  the 
wall,  and  the  three  men  were  standing  in  front  of  it. 
Presently  it  was  opened.  The  man  called  Doc  knelt 
down  in  front  of  it  and  began  to  examine  its  contents. 
He  swung  around  to  his  companions  after  a  moment 
with  a  large  pile  of  banknotes  in  his  hands.  From  this 
pile  he  counted  out  and  handed  a  small  portion  to  each 
of  the  other  two  men — and  coolly  stuffed  the  bulk  of 
the  money  into  his  own  pockets. 

The  scene  went  blurry  then  for  a  moment  before 
John  Bruce's  eyes,  and  he  lifted  his  free  hand  and 
brushed  it  across  his  forehead.  He  was  so  beastly 
weak,  anyhow,  and  the  infernal  dope  was  getting  in 
its  work  too  fast!  He  fought  with  all  his  mental 
strength  against  the  impulse  to  relax  and  close  his 
eyes.  What  was  it  they  were  doing  now?  It  looked 
like  some  foolish  masquerade.  The  two  companions 
of  the  man  with  the  sinister,  pasty  face  were  tying 
handkerchiefs  over  their  faces  and  drawing  revolvers 
from  their  pockets;  and  then  the  big  man  began  to  close 
the  door  of  the  safe. 


io8  PAWNED 

The  Doc's  voice  came  sharply: 

"Look  out  you  don't  lock  it,  you  fool !" 

Once  more  John  Bruce  brushed  his  hand  across  his 
eyes.  His  brain  must  be  playing  him  tricks  again.  A 
din  infernal  rose  suddenly  in  the  room.  While  the  big 
man  lounged  nonchalantly  against  the  safe,  the  other 
two  were  scuffling  all  over  the  floor  and  throwing  chairs 
about.  And  then  from  somewhere  upstairs,  on  the 
floor  there  too,  John  Bruce  thought  he  caught  the 
sound  of  hurried  movements. 

Then  for  an  instant  the  scuffling  in  the  room  ceased, 
and  the  pasty-faced  man's  voice  came  in  a  peremptory 
whisper: 

"The  minute  any  one  shows  at  the  door  you  swing 
that  safe  open  as  though  you'd  been  working  at  it  all 
the  time,  Birdie,  and  pretend  to  shove  everything  in 
sight  into  your  pockets.  And  you,  Joe,  you've  got  me 
cornered  and  covered  here — see?  And  you  hold  the 
doorway  with  your  gun  too ;  and  then  both  of  you  back 
away  and  make  your  getaway  through  the  window." 

The  scuffling  began  again.  John  Bruce  watched  the 
scene,  a  sense  of  drowsiness  and  apathy  creeping  upom 
him.  He  tried  to  rouse  himself.  He  ought  to  do 
something.  That  vicious-faced  little  crook  who  had 
haunted  him  with  unwelcome  visitations,  and  who  at 
this  precise  moment  had  the  bulk  of  the  money  from 
the  safe  in  his  own  pockets,  was  in  the  act  of  planting  a 
somewhat  crude,  but  probably  none  the  less  effective, 
alibi,  and 

John  Bruce  heard  a  door  flung  open,  and  then  a 
sudden,  startled  cry,  first  in  a  woman's  and  then  in  a 
man's  voice.  But  he  could  not  see  any  door  from  the 
position  in  which  he  lay.  He  turned  over  with  a  great 


THE  ALIBI  109 

effort,  facing  the  other  way,  and  reached  out  with  his 
fingers  for  the  panel  of  the  screen  that  overlapped  the 
head  of  the  cot.  And  then  John  Bruce  lay  motionless, 
the  blood  pounding  fiercely  at  his  temples. 

He  was  conscious  that  a  tall,  white-haired  man  in 
scanty  attire  was  there,  because  the  doorway  framed 
two  figures;  but  he  saw  only  a  beautiful  face,  pitifully 
white,  only  the  slim  form  of  a  girl  whose  great  brown 
eyes  were  very  wide  with  fear,  and  who  held  her  dress- 
ing gown  tightly  clutched  around  her  throat.  It  was 
the  girl  of  the  traveling  pawn-shop,  it  was  the  girl  of 
his  dreams  in  the  shaft  of  sunlight,  it  was  the  girl  he 
had  followed  here — only — only  the  picture  seemed  to 
be  fading  away.  It  was  very  strange!  It  was  most 
curious !  She  always  seemed  to  leave  that  way.  This 
was  Larmon  now  instead,  wasn't  it?  Larmon  .  .  . 
and  a  jack-knife  .  .  .  and  a  quill  toothpick  .  .  . 
and  . 


—  VII  — 

THE  GIRL  OF  THE  TRAVELING  PAWN-SHOP 

JOHN  BRUCE  abstractedly  twirled  the  tassel  of 
the  old  and  faded  dressing  gown  which  he  wore, 
the  temporary  possession  of  which  he  owed  to 
Paul  Veniza,  his  host.  From  the  chair  in  which  he  sat 
his  eyes  ventured  stolen  glances  at  the  nape  of  a  dainty 
neck,  and  at  a  great  coiled  mass  of  silken  brown  hair 
that  shone  like  burnished  copper  in  the  afternoon  sun- 
light, as  Claire  Veniza,  her  back  turned  toward  him, 
busied  herself  about  the  room.  He  could  walk  now 
across  the  floor — and  a  great  deal  further,  he  was  sure, 
if  they  would  only  let  him.  He  had  not  pressed  that 
point;  it  might  be  taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  an 
already  over-generous  hospitality,  but  he  was  not  at 
all  anxious  to  speed  his  departure  from — well,  from 
where  he  was  at  that  precise  moment. 

And  now  as  he  looked  at  Claire  Veniza,  his  thoughts 
went  back  to  the  night  he  had  stepped,  at  old  Hawkins' 
invitation,  into  the  traveling  pawn-shop.  That  was 
not  so  very  long  ago — two  weeks  of  grave  illness,  and 
then  the  past  week  of  convalescence — but  it  seemed  to 
span  a  great  and  almost  limitless  stretch  of  time,  and  to 
mark  a  new  and  entirely  different  era  in  his  life;  an 
era  that  perplexed  and  troubled  and  intrigued  him 
with  conditions  and  surroundings  and  disturbing  ele- 
ments that  he  did  not  comprehend — but  at  the  same 

no 


THE  TRAVELING  PAWN-SHOP       in 

time  made  the  blood  in  his  veins  to  course  with  wild 
abandon,  and  the  future  to  hold  out  glad  and  beckon- 
ing hands. 

He  loved,  with  a  great,  overwhelming,  masterful 
love,  the  girl  who  stood  there  just  across  the  room  all 
unconscious  of  the  worship  that  he  knew  was  in  his 
eyes,  and  which  he  neither  tried  nor  wished  to  curb. 
Of  his  own  love  he  was  sure.  He  had  loved  her  from 
the  moment  he  had  first  seen  her,  and  in  his  heart  he 
knew  he  held  fate  kind  to  have  given  him  the  wound 
that  in  its  turn  had  brought  the  week  of  convalescence 

just  past.  And  yet — and  yet Here  dismay  came, 

and  his  brain  seemed  to  stumble.  Sometimes  he  dared 
to  hope;  sometimes  he  was  plunged  into  the  depths  of 
misery  and  despair.  Little  things,  a  touch  of  the  hand 
as  she  had  nursed  him  that  had  seemed  like  some  God- 
given  tender  caress,  a  glance  when  she  had  thought  he 
had  not  seen  and  which  he  had  allowed  his  heart  to 
interpret  to  its  advantage  with  perhaps  no  other  justi- 
fication than  its  own  yearning  and  desire,  had  buoyed 
him  up;  and  then,  at  times,  a  strange,  almost  bitter 
aloofness,  it  seemed,  in  her  attitude  toward  him — and 
this  had  checked,  had  always  checked,  the  words  that 
were  ever  on  his  lips. 

A  faint  flush  dyed  his  cheeks.  But  even  so,  and  for 
all  his  boasted  love,  did  he  not  in  his  own  soul  wrong 
her  sometimes?  The  questions  would  come.  What 
was  the  meaning  of  the  strange  environment  in  which 
she  lived?  Why  should  she  have  driven  to  a  gambling 
hell  late  at  night,  and  quite  as  though  it  were  the  usual 

thing,  to  transact  business  alone  in  that  car  with 

God!  His  hands  clenched  fiercely.  He  remembered 
that  night,  and  how  the  same  thought  had  come  then, 


ii2  PAWNED 

mocking  him,  jeering  him,  making  sport  of  him.  He 
was  a  cad,  a  pitiful,  vile-minded  cad  1  Thank  God  that 
he  was  at  least  still  man  enough  to  be  ashamed  of  his 
own  thoughts,  even  if  they  came  in  spite  of  him ! 

Perhaps  it  was  the  strange,  unusual  characters  that 
surrounded  her,  that  came  and  went  in  this  curious 
place  here,  that  fostered  such  thoughts;  perhaps  he  was 
not  strong  enough  yet  to  grapple  with  all  these  con- 
fusing things.  He  smiled  a  little  grimly.  The  robbery 
of  the  safe,  for  instance — and  that  reptile  whom  he 
now  knew  to  be  his  own  attending  physician,  Doctor 
Crang!  He  had  said  nothing  about  his  knowledge  of 
the  robbery — yet.  As  nearly  as  he  could  judge  it  had 
occurred  two  or  three  days  prior  to  the  time  when  his 
actual  convalescence  had  set  in,  and  as  a  material  wit- 
ness to  the  crime  he  was  not  at  all  sure  that  in  law 
his  testimony  would  be  of  much  value.  They  must 
certainly  have  found  him  in  an  unconscious  state  imme- 
diately afterward — and  Doctor  Crang  would  as  indu- 
bitably attack  his  testimony  as  being  nothing  more  than 
the  hallucination  of  a  sick  brain. 

The  luck  of  the  devil  had  been  with  Crang!  Why 
had  he,  John  Bruce,  gone  drifting  off  into  unconscious- 
ness just  at  the  psychological  moment  when,  if  the  plan 
had  been  carried  out  as  arranged  and  the  other  two  had 
made  their  fake  escape,  Crang  would  have  been  left 
in  the  room  with  Claire  and  Paul  Veniza — with  the 
money  in  his  pockets!  He  would  have  had  Doctor 
Crang  cold  then  I  It  was  quite  different  now.  He  was 
not  quite  sure  what  he  meant  to  do,  except  that  he  fully 
proposed  to  have  a  reckoning  with  Doctor  Crang.  But 
that  reckoning,  something,  he  could  not  quite  define 


THE  TRAVELING  PAWN-SHOP        113 

what,  had  prompted  him  to  postpone  until  he  had 
become  physically  a  little  stronger ! 

And  then  there  was  another  curious  thing  about  it 
all,  which  too  had  influenced  him  in  keeping  silent. 
Hawkins,  Paul  Veniza,  Claire  and  Doctor  Crang  had 
each,  severally  and  collectively,  been  here  in  this  room 
many  times  since  the  robbery,  and  not  once  in  his  pres- 
ence had  the  affair  ever  been  mentioned!  And — oh, 
what  did  it  matter!  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  as 
though  to  rid  himself  of  some  depressing  physical 
weight.  What  did  anything  matter  on  this  wonderful 
sunlit  afternoon — save  Claire  there  in  her  white,  cool 
dress,  that  seemed  somehow  to  typify  her  own  glorious 
youth  and  freshness. 

How  dainty  and  sweet  and  alluring  she  looked!  His 
eyes  were  no  longer  contented  with  stolen  glances ;  they 
held  now  masterfully,  defiant  of  any  self-restraint, 
upon  the  slim  figure  that  was  all  grace  from  the  trim 
little  ankles  to  the  poise  of  the  shapely  head.  He  felt 
the  blood  quicken  his  pulse.  Stronger  than  he  had 
ever  known  it  before,  straining  to  burst  all  barriers, 
demanding  expression  as  a  right  that  would  not  be 
denied,  his  love  rose  dominant  within  him,  and 

The  tassel  he  had  been  twirling  dropped  from  his 
hand.  She  had  turned  suddenly;  and  across  the  room 
her  eyes  met  his,  calm,  deep  and  unperturbed  at  first, 
but  wide  the  next  instant  with  a  startled  shyness,  and 
the  color  sweeping  upward  from  her  throat  crimsoned 
her  face,  and  in  confusion  she  turned  away  her  head. 

John  Bruce  was  on  his  feet.  He  stumbled  a  little  as 
he  took  a  step  forward.  His  heart  was  pounding, 
flinging  a  red  tide  into  the  pallor  of  his  cheeks  that 
illness  had  claimed  as  one  of  its  tolls. 


ii4  PAWNED 

"I — I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you  like  that,"  he  said 
huskily.  "But  I  have  wanted  to  tell  you  for  so  long. 
It  seems  as  though  I  have  always  wanted  to  tell  you. 
Claire — I  love  you." 

She  did  not  answer. 

He  was  beside  her  now — only  her  head  was  lowered 
and  averted  and  he  could  not  look  into  her  face.  Her 
fingers  were  plucking  tremulously  at  a  fold  of  her 
dress.  He  caught  her  hand  between  both  his  own. 

"Claire — Claire,  I  love  you!"  he  whispered. 

She  disengaged  her  hand  gently;  and,  still  refusing 
to  let  him  see  her  face,  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"I — I "  Her  voice  was  very  low.  "Oh,  don't 

you  know?" 

"I  know  I  love  you,"  he  answered  passionately.  "I 
know  that  nothing  else  but  that  matters." 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"I  thought  perhaps  he  would  have  told  you.  I — I 
am  going  to  marry  Doctor  Crang." 

John  Bruce  stepped  back  involuntarily;  and  for  a 
moment  incredulity  and  helpless  amazement  held  sway 
in  his  expression — then  his  lips  tightened  in  a  hurt,  half 
angry  way. 

"Is  that  fair  to  me,  Claire — to  give  me  an  answer 
like  that?"  he  said  in  a  low  tone.  "I  know  it  isn't  true, 
of  course;  it  couldn't  be — but — but  it  isn't  much  of  a 
joke  either,  is  it?" 

"It  is  true,"  she  said  monotonously. 

He  leaned  suddenly  forward,  and  taking  her  face 
between  his  hands,  made  her  lift  her  head  and  look  at 
him.  The  brown  eyes  were  swimming  with  tears.  The 
red  swept  her  face  in  a  great  wave,  and,  receding,  left 
it  deathly  pale — and  in  a  frenzy  of  confusion  she 


THE  TRAVELING  PAWN-SHOP       115 

wrenched  herself  free  from  him  and  retreated  a  step. 

"My  God!"  said  John  Bruce  hoarsely.  "You — and 
Doctor  Crang!  I  don't  understand!  It  is  monstrous! 

You  can't  love  that "  He  checked  himself,  biting 

at  his  lips.  "You  can't  love  Doctor  Crang.  It  is 
impossible !  You  dare  not  stand  there  and  tell  me  that 
you  do.  Answer  me,  Claire — answer  me !" 

She  seemed  to  have  regained  her  self-control — or 
perhaps  it  was  the  one  defense  she  knew.  The  little 
figure  was  drawn  up,  her  head  held  back. 

"You  have  no  right  to  ask  me  that,"  she  said 
steadily. 

"Right!"  John  Bruce  echoed  almost  fiercely.  His 
soul  itself  seemed  suddenly  to  be  in  passionate  turmoil; 
it  seemed  to  juggle  two  figures  before  his  consciousness, 
contrasting  one  with  the  other  in  most  hideous  fashion 
— this  woman  here  whom  he  loved,  who  struggled  to 
hold  herself  bravely,  who  stood  for  all  that  was  pure, 
for  all  that  he  reverenced  in  a  woman;  and  that  sallow, 
evil-faced  degenerate,  a  drug  fiend  so  lost  to  the  shame 
of  his  vice  that  he  pricked  himself  with  his  miserable 
needle  quite  as  unconcernedly  in  public  as  one  would 
smoke  a  cigarette — and  worse — a  crook — a  thief! 
Was  it  a  coward's  act  to  tell  this  girl  what  the  man 
was  whom  she  proposed  to  marry?  Was  it  contempt- 
ible to  pull  a  rival  such  as  that  down  from  the  pedestal 
which  in  some  fiendish  way  he  must  have  erected  for 
himself?  Surely  she  did  not  know  the  man  for  what 
he  actually  was!  She  could  not  know!  "Right!"  he 
cried  out.  "Yes,  I  have  the  right — both  for  your  sake 
and  for  my  own.  I  have  the  right  my  love  gives  me. 
Do  you  know  how  I  came  here  that  first  night?" 


n6  PAWNED 

"Yes,"  she  said  with  an  effort.  "You  told  me.  You 
were  in  a  fight  in  Ratti's  place,  and  were  wounded." 

He  laughed  out  harshly. 

"And  I  told  you  the  truth — as  far  as  it  went,"  he 
said.  "But  do  you  know  how  I  came  to  be  in  this 
locality  after  leaving  you  in  that  motor  car?  I  fol- 
lowed you.  I  loved  you  from  the  moment  I  saw  you 
that  night.  It  seems  as  though  I  have  always  loved  you 
— as  I  always  shall  love  you.  That  is  what  gives  me 
the  right  to  speak.  And  I  mean  to  speak.  If  it  were 
an  honorable  man  to  whom  you  were  to  be  married  it 
would  be  quite  another  matter;  but  you  cannot  know 
what  you  are  doing,  you  do  not  know  this  man  as  he 
really  is,  or  what  he " 

"Please!  Please  stop!"  she  cried  out  brokenly. 
"Nothing  you  could  say  would  tell  me  anything  I  do 
not  already  know." 

"I  am  not  so  sure !"  said  John  Bruce  grimly.  "Sup- 
pose I  told  you  he  was  a  criminal?" 

"He  is  a  criminal."  Her  voice  was  without  inflec- 
tion. 

"Suppose  then  he  were  sent  to  jail — to  serve  a  sen- 
tence?" 

"I  would  marry  him  when  he  came  out,"  she  said. 
"Oh,  please  do  not  say  any  more!  I  know  far  more 
about  him  than  you  do;  but — but  that  has  nothing  to 
do  with  it." 

For  an  instant,  motionless,  John  Bruce  stared  at 
Claire;  then  his  hands  swept  out  and  caught  her  wrists 
in  a  tight  grip  and  held  her  prisoner. 

"Claire!"  His  voice  choked.  "What  does  this 
mean?  You  do  not  love  him;  you  say  you  know  he  is 
even  a  criminal — and  yet  you  are  going  to  marry  him ! 


THE  TRAVELING  PAWN-SHOP       117 

What  hold  has  he  got  on  you?  What  is  it?  What 
damnable  trap  has  he  got  you  in?  I  am  going  to  know, 
Claire!  I  will  know!  And  whatever  it  is,  whatever 
the  cause  of  it,  I'll  crush  it,  strangle  it,  sweep  it  out 
of  your  dear  life  at  any  cost !  Tell  me,  Claire !" 

Her  face  had  gone  white;  she  struggled  a  little  to 
release  herself. 

"You — you  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying. 
You "  Her  voice  broke  in  a  half  sob. 

"Claire,  look  at  me!"  He  was  pleading  now  with 
his  soul  in  his  eyes  and  voice.  "Claire,  I " 

"Oh,  please  let  me  go!"  she  cried  out  frantically. 
"You  cannot  say  anything  that  will  make  any  differ- 
ence, I — it  only  makes  it  harder."  The  tears  were 
brimming  in  her  eyes  again.  "Oh,  please  let  me  go — 
there's — there's  some  one  coming." 

John  Bruce's  hands  dropped  to  his  sides.  The  door, 
already  half  open,  was  pushed  wide,  and  Hawkins,  the 
old  chauffeur,  stood  on  the  threshold.  And  as  John 
Bruce  looked  in  that  direction,  he  was  suddenly  and 
strangely  conscious  that  somehow  for  the  moment  the 
old  man  dominated  his  attention  even  to  the  exclusion 
of  Claire.  There  was  something  of  curious  self- 
effacement,  of  humbleness  in  the  bent,  stoop-shouldered 
figure  there,  who  twisted  a  shapeless  hat  awkwardly  in 
his  hands;  but  also  something  of  trouble  and  deep 
anxiety  in  the  faded  blue  eyes  as  they  fixed  on  the  girl, 
and  yet  without  meeting  her  eyes  in  return,  held  upon 
her  as  she  walked  slowly  now  toward  the  door. 

"Dear  old  Hawkins,"  she  said  softly,  and  laid  her 
hand  for  an  instant  on  the  other's  arm  as  she  passed 
by  him,  "you  and  Mr.  Bruce  will  be  able  to  entertain 


n8  PAWNED 

each  other,  won't  you?     I — I'm  going  upstairs  for  a 
little  while." 

And  the  old  man  made  no  answer;  but,  turning  on 
the  threshold,  he  watched  her,  his  attitude,  it  seemed 
to  John  Bruce,  one  of  almost  pathetic  wistfulness,  as 
Claire  disappeared  from  view. 


—  VIII— - 

ALLIES 

CLAIRE'S   footsteps,  ascending  the   stairs,  died 
away. 
John  Bruce  returned  to  his  chair.    His  eyes 
were  still  on  the  old  chauffeur. 

Hawkins  was  no  longer  twisting  his  shapeless  hat 
nervously  in  his  fingers ;  instead,  he  held  it  now  in  one 
clenched  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  closed  the  door 
behind  him  as  he  stepped  forward  across  the  threshold, 
and  with  squared  shoulders  advanced  toward  John 
Bruce.  And  then,  quite  as  suddenly  again,  as  though 
alarmed  at  his  own  temerity,  the  old  man  paused,  and 
the  question  on  his  lips,  aggressively  enough  framed, 
became  irresolute  in  tone. 

"What — what's  the  matter  with  Claire?"  he  stam- 
mered. "What's  this  mean?" 

It  was  a  moment  before  John  Bruce  answered,  while 
he  eyed  the  other  from  head  to  foot.  Hawkins  was 
not  the  least  interesting  by  any  means  of  the  queer 
characters  that  came  and  went  and  centered  around 
this  one-time  pawn-shop  of  Paul  Veniza;  but  Haw- 
kins, of  them  all,  was  the  one  he  was  least  able,  from 
what  he  had  seen  of  the  man,  to  fathom.  And  yet, 
somehow,  he  liked  Hawkins. 

"That's  exactly  what  I  want  to  know,"  he  said  a 
little  brusquely.  "And" — he  eyed  Hawkins  once  more 

119 


120  PAWNED 

with  cool  appraisal — "I  think  you  are  the  man  best 
able  to  supply  the  information." 

Hawkins  began  to  fumble  with  his  hat  again. 

"I — I — why  do  you  say  that?"  he  faltered,  a  sud- 
den note  of  what  seemed  almost  trepidation  in  his 
voice. 

John  Bruce  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Possibly  it  is  just  a  hunch,"  he  said  calmly.  "But 
you  were  the  one  who  was  driving  that  old  bus  on  a 
certain  night — you  remember?  And  you  seem  to  hang 
around  here  about  as  you  please.  Therefore  you  must 
stand  in  on  a  fairly  intimate  basis  with  the  family 
circle.  I'd  like  to  know  what  hold  a  rotten  crook  like 
Doctor  Crang  has  got  on  Claire  Veniza  that  she  should 
be  willing  to  marry  him,  when  she  doesn't  love  him. 
I'd  like  to  know  why  a  girl  like  Claire  Veniza  drives 
alone  at  night  to  a  gambling  hell  to  " 

"That's  enough!"  Hawkins'  voice  rose  abruptly, 
peremptorily.  He  advanced  again  threateningly  on 
John  Bruce.  "Don't  you  dare  to  say  one  word  against 
my — against — against  her.  I'll  choke  the  life  out  of 
you,  if  you  do!  Who  are  you,  anyway?  You  are  ask- 
ing a  lot  of  questions.  How  did  you  get  here  in  the 
first  place?  You  answer  that!  I've  always  meant  to 
ask  you.  You  answer  that — and  leave  Claire  out  of 
it!" 

John  Bruce  whistled  softly. 

"I  can't  very  well  do  that,"  he  said  quietly,  "because 
it  was  Claire  who  brought  me  here." 

"Claire  brought  you!"  The  old  blue  eyes  grew  very 
hard  and  very  steady.  "That's  a  lie !  She  never  saw 
you  after  you  got  out  at  the  corner  that  night  until  you 
came  in  through  the  window  here.  She  didn't  tell  you 


ALLIES  121 

where  she  lived.  She  didn't  invite  you  here.  She's 
not  that  kind,  and,  sick  though  you  may  be,  I'll  not 
keep  my  hands  off  you,  if " 

"Steady,  Hawkins — steady  1"  said  John  Bruce,  his 
voice  as  quiet  as  before.  "We  seem  to  possess  a  com- 
mon bond.  You  seem  to  be  pretty  fond  of  Claire. 
Well,  so  am  I.  That  ought  to  make  us  allies."  He 
held  out  his  hand  suddenly  to  the  old  man.  "I  had 
just  asked  Claire  to  marry  me  when  you  came  to  the 
door." 

Hawkins  stared  from  the  outstretched  hand  into 
John  Bruce's  eyes,  and  back  again  at  the  outstretched 
hand.  Bewilderment,  hesitation,  a  curious  excitement 
was  in  his  face. 

"You  asked  Claire  to  marry  you?"  He  swallowed 
hard.  "You — you  want  to  marry  Claire?  I — why?" 

"Why?"  John  Bruce  echoed  helplessly.  "Good 
Lord,  Hawkins,  you  are  a  queer  one !  Barring  beasts 
like  Crang,  why  does  a  man  ordinarily  ask  a  woman  to 
marry  him?  Because  he  loves  her.  Well,  I  love 
Claire.  I  loved  her  from  the  moment  I  saw  her.  I 
followed  her,  or,  rather,  that  old  bus  of  yours,  here 
that  night.  And  that  is  how,  after  that  fight  at  Ratti's 
when  I  got  out  the  back  door  and  into  the  lane,  I 
crawled  over  here  for  sanctuary.  I  said  Claire  brought 
me  here.  You  understand  now,  don't  you?  That's 
how  she  brought  me  here — because  I  loved  her  that 
night.  But  it  is  because  of  Crang" — his  voice  grew 
hard — "that  I  am  telling  you  this.  I  love  her  now — 
and  a  great  deal  too  much,  whether  she  could  ever  care 
for  me  or  not,  to  see  her  in  the  clutches  of  a  crook, 
and  her  life  wrecked  by  a  degenerate  cur.  And  some- 
how"— his  hand  was  still  extended — "I  thought  you 


122  PAWNED 

seemed  to  think  enough  of  her  to  feel  the  same  way 
about  this  marriage — for  I  imagine  you  must  know 
about  it.  Well,  Hawkins,  where  do  you  stand?  There's 
something  rotten  here.  Are  you  for  Claire,  or  the 
dope-eater?" 

"Oh,  my  God!"  Hawkins  whispered  huskily.  And 
then  almost  blindly  he  snatched  at  John  Bruce's  hand 
and  wrung  it  hard.  "I — I  believe  you're  straight,"  he 
choked.  "I  know  you  are.  I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes. 
I  wouldn't  ask  anything  more  in  the  world  for  her 
than  a  man's  honest  love.  And  she  ain't  going  to  marry 
that  devil!  You  understand?"  His  voice  was  rising 
in  a  curious  cracked  shrillness.  "She  ain't !  Not  while 
old  Hawkins  is  alive !" 

John  Bruce  drew  his  brows  together  in  a  puzzled 
way. 

"I  pass  you  up,  Hawkins,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  can't 
make  you  out.  But  if  you  mean  what  you  say,  and  if 
you  trust  me " 

"I'm  going  to  trust  you!"  There  was  eagerness, 
excitement,  a  tremble  in  the  old  man's  voice.  "I've 
got  to  trust  you  after  what  you've  said.  I  ain't  slept 
for  nights  on  account  of  this.  It  looks  like  God  sent 
you.  You  wait!  Wait  just  a  second,  and  I'll  show 
you  how  much  I  trust  you." 

John  Bruce  straightened  up  in  his  chair.  Was  the 
old  man  simply  erratic,  or  perhaps  a  little  irresponsible 
— or  what?  Hawkins  had  pattered  across  the  floor, 
had  cautiously  opened  the  door,  and  was  now  peering 
with  equal  caution  into  the  outer  room.  Apparently 
satisfied  at  last,  he  closed  the  door  noiselessly,  and 
started  back  across  the  room.  And  then  John  Bruce 
knew  suddenly  an  indefinable  remorse  at  having  some- 


ALLIES  123 

how  misjudged  the  shabby  old  chauffeur,  whose  figure 
seemed  to  totter  now  a  little  as  it  advanced  toward 
him.  Hawkins'  face  was  full  of  misery,  and  the  old 
blue  eyes  were  brimming  with  tears. 

"It — it  ain't  easy" — Hawkins'  voice  quavered — "to 
say  what  I  got  to  say.  There  ain't  no  one  on  earth  but 
Paul  Veniza  knows  it;  but  you've  got  a  right  to  know 
after  what  you've  said.  And  I've  got  to  tell  you  for 
Claire's  sake  too,  because  it  seems  to  me  there  ain't 
nobody  going  to  help  me  save  her  the  way  you  are. 
She — she's  my  little  girl.  I — I'm  Claire's  father." 

John  Bruce  stared  numbly  at  the  other.  He  could 
find  no  words ;  he  could  only  stare. 

"Yes,  look  at  me !"  burst  out  the  old  man  finally,  and 
into  his  voice  there  came  an  infinite  bitterness.  "Look 
at  my  clothes!  I'm  just  what  I  look  like!  I  ain't  no 
good — and  that's  what  has  kept  my  little  girl  and  me 
apart  from  the  day  she  was  born.  Yes,  look  at  me ! 
I  don't  blame  you!" 

John  Bruce  was  on  his  feet.  His  hand  reached  out 
and  rested  on  the  old  man's  shoulder. 

"That  isn't  the  way  to  trust  me,  Hawkins,"  he  said 
gently.  "What  do  your  clothes  matter?  What  do 
your  looks  matter?  What  does  anything  in  the  world 
matter  alongside  of  so  wonderful  a  thing  as  that  which 
you  have  just  told  me?  Straighten  those  shoulders, 
Hawkins;  throw  back  that  head  of  yours.  Her  father! 
Why,  you're  the  richest  man  in  New  York,  and  you've 
reason  to  be  the  proudest!" 

John  Bruce  was  smiling  with  both  lips  and  eyes  into 
the  other's  face.  He  felt  a  tremor  pass  through  the 
old  man's  frame;  he  saw  a  momentary  flash  of  joy  and 


124  PAWNED 

pride  light  up  the  wrinkled,  weather-beaten  face — and 
then  Hawkins  turned  his  head  away. 

"God  bless  you,"  said  Hawkins  brokenly;  "but  you 
don't  know.  She's  all  I've  got;  she's  the  only  kith  and 
kin  I've  got  in  all  the  world,  and  oh,  my  God,  how 
these  old  arms  have  ached  just  to  take  her  and  hold 
her  tight,  and — and——"  He  lifted  his  head  sud- 
denly, met  John  Brace's  eyes,  and  a  flush  dyed  his 
cheeks.  "She's  my  little  girl;  but  I  lie  when  I  say  I 
love  her.  It's  drink  I  love.  That's  my  shame,  John 
Bruce — you've  got  it  all  now.  I  pawned  my  soul,  and 
I  pawned  my  little  girl  for  drink." 

"Hawkins,"  said  John  Bruce  huskily,  "I  think  you're 
a  bigger  man  than  you've  any  idea  you  are." 

"D'ye  mean  that?"  Hawkins  spoke  eagerly— only 
to  shake  his  head  miserably  the  next  instant.  "You 
don't  understand,"  he  said.  "I  as  good  as  killed  her 
mother  with  drink.  She  died  when  Claire  was  born. 
I  brought  Claire  here,  and  Paul  Veniza  and  his  wife 
took  her  in.  And  Paul  Veniza  was  right  about  it. 
He  made  me  promise  she  wasn't  to  know  I  was  her 
father  until — until  she  would  have  a  man  and  not  a 
drunken  sot  to  look  after  her.  That's  twenty  years 
ago.  I've  tried.  God  knows  I've  tried,  but  it's  beaten 
me  ever  since.  Paul's  wife  died  when  Claire  was  six- 
teen, and  Claire's  run  the  house  for  Paul — and — and 
I'm  Hawkins — just  Hawkins — the  old  cab  driver  that's 
dropping  in  the  harness.  Just  Hawkins  that  shuffers 
the  traveling  pawn-shop  now  that  Paul's  quit  the  regu- 
lar shop.  That's  what  I  am — just  old  Hawkins,  who's 
always  swearing  to  God  he's  going  to  leave  the  booze 
alone." 

John   Bruce   did   not   speak   for   a    moment.     He 


ALLIES  125 

returned  to  his  chair  and  sat  down.  Somehow  he 
wanted  to  think;  somehow  he  felt  that  he  had  not  quite 
grasped  the  full  significance  of  what  he  had  just  heard. 
He  looked  at  Hawkins.  Hawkins  had  sunk  into  a 
chair  by  the  table,  and  his  face  was  buried  in  his  hands. 

And  then  John  Bruce  smiled. 

"Look  here,  Hawkins,"  he  said  briskly,  "let's  talk 
about  something  else  for  a  minute.  Tell  me  about  Paul 
Veniza  and  this  traveling  pawn-shop.  It's  a  bit  out  of 
the  ordinary,  to  say  the  least." 

Hawkins  raised  his  head,  and  his  thoughts  for  the 
moment  diverted  into  other  channels,  his  face  bright- 
ened, and  he  scratched  at  the  scanty  fringe  of  hair 
behind  his  ear. 

"It  ain't  bad,  is  it?"  he  said  with  interest.  "I'm 
kind  of  proud  of  it  too,  'cause  I  guess  mabbe,  when 
all's  said  and  done,  it  was  my  idea.  You  see,  when 
Paul's  wife  died,  Paul  went  all  to  pieces.  He  ain't 
well  now,  for  that  matter — nowhere  near  as  well  as 
he  looks.  I'm  kind  of  scared  about  Paul.  He  keeps 
getting  sick  turns  once  every  so  often.  But  when  the 
wife  died  he  was  just  clean  broken  up.  She'd  been  his 
right  hand  from  the  start  in  his  business  here,  and — 
I  dunno— it  just  seemed  to  affect  him  that  way.  He 
didn't  want  to  go  on  any  more  without  her.  And  as 
far  as  money  was  concerned  he  didn't  have  to.  Paul 
ain't  rich,  but  he's  mighty  comfortably  off.  Anyway, 
he  took  the  three  balls  down  from  over  the  door,  and 
he  took  the  signs  off  the  windows,  and  in  comes  the 
carpenters  to  change  things  around  here,  and  there 
ain't  any  more  pawn-shop." 

Hawkins  for  the  first  time  smiled  broadly. 

"But  it  didn't  work  out,"  said  Hawkins.     "Paul's 


126  PAWNED 

got  a  bigger  business  and  a  more  profitable  one  to-day 
than  he  ever  had  before  in  his  life.  You  see,  he  had 
been  at  it  a  good  many  years,  and  he  had  what  you 
might  call  a  private  connection — swells  up  on  the 
Avenue,  mostly  ladies,  but  gents  too,  who  needed 
money  sometimes  without  having  it  printed  in  the 
papers,  and  they  wouldn't  let  Paul  alone.  Paul  ain't 
got  a  hair  in  his  head  that  ain't  honest  and  fair  and 
square  and  above-board — and  they  were  the  ones  that 
knew  it  better  than  anybody  else.  See?" 

"Yes,"  said  John  Bruce.  "Go  on,  Hawkins,"  he 
prompted. 

"Well,"  said  Hawkins,  "I  used  to  drive  an  old  han- 
som cab  in  those  days,  and  I  used  to  drive  Paul  out  on 
those  private  calls  to  the  swell  houses.  And  then  when 
Mrs.  Paul  died  and  Paul  closed  up  the  shop  here  he 
kind  of  drew  himself  into  his  shell  all  round,  and 
mostly  he  wouldn't  go  out  any  more,  though  the  swells 
kept  telephoning  and  telephoning  him.  He'd  only  go 
to  just  a  few  people  that  he'd  done  business  with  since 
almost  the  beginning.  He  said  he  didn't  want  to  go 
around  ringing  people's  doorbells,  and  being  ushered 
into  boudoirs  or  anywhere  else,  and  he  was  settling 
down  to  shun  everybody  and  everything.  It  wasn't 
good  for  Paul.  And  then  a  sort  of  crazy  notion  struck 
me,  and  I  chewed  it  over  and  over  in  my  mind,  and 
finally  I  put  it  up  to  Paul.  In  the  mood  he  was  in,  it 
just  caught  his  fancy;  and  so  I  bought  a  second-hand 
closed  car,  and  fitted  it  up  like  you  saw,  and  learned 
to  drive  it — and  that's  how  there  came  to  be  the 
traveling  pawn-shop. 

"After  that,  there  wasn't  anything  to  it.  It  caught 
everybody  else's  fancy  as  well  as  Paul's,  and  it  began 


ALLIES  127 

to  get  him  out  of  himself.  The  old  bus,  as  you  called 
it,  was  running  all  the  time.  Lots  of  the  swells  who 
really  didn't  want  to  pawn  anything  took  a  ride  and  did 
a  bit  of  business  just  for  the  sake  of  the  experience, 
and  the  regular  customers  just  went  nutty  over  it,  they 
were  that  pleased. 

"And  then  some  one  who  stood  in  with  that  swell 
gambling  joint  where  we  picked  you  up  must  have 
tipped  the  manager  off  about  it,  and  he  saw  where  he 
could  do  a  good  stroke  of  business — make  it  a  kind  of 
advertisement,  you  know,  besides  doing  away  with  any 
lending  by  the  house  itself,  and  he  put  up  a  proposition 
to  Paul  where  Paul  was  to  get  all  the  business  at  regu- 
lar rates,  and  a  bit  of  a  salary  besides  on  account  of 
the  all-night  hours  he'd  have  to  keep  sometimes.  Paul 
said  he'd  do  it,  and  turned  the  salary  over  to  me;  and 
they  doped  out  that  pass  word  about  a  trip  to  Persia 
to  make  it  sound  mysterious  and  help  out  the  adver- 
tising end,  and — well,  I  guess  that's  all." 

John  Bruce  was  twirling  the  tassel  of  his  dressing 
gown  again  abstractedly;  but  now  he  stopped  as  Haw- 
kins rose  abruptly  and  came  toward  him. 

"No — it  ain't  all,"  said  Hawkins,  a  curious  note 
almost  of  challenge  in  his  voice.  "You  said  something 
about  Claire  going  to  that  gambling  joint.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  ever  been  there.  That  night  Paul 
was  out  when  they  telephoned.  You  must  be  one  of 
their  big  customers,  'cause  they  wouldn't  listen  to  any- 
thing but  a  trip  to  Persia  right  on  the  spot.  They  were 
so  set  on  it  that  Claire  said  it  would  be  all  right.  She 
sent  for  me.  At  first  I  wasn't  for  it  at  all,  but  she  said 
it  seemed  to  be  of  such  importance,  and  that  there 
wasn't  anything  else  to  do.  Claire  knows  a  bit  of 


128  PAWNED 

jewelry  or  a  stone  as  well  as  Paul  does,  and  I  knew 
Claire  could  take  care  of  herself;  and  besides,  although 
she  didn't  know  it,  it — it  was  her  own  old  father  driv- 
ing the  car  there  with  her." 

"Thank  you,  Hawkins,"  said  John  Bruce  simply;  and 
after  a  moment:  "It  doesn't  make  the  love  I  said  I 
had  for  her  show  up  very  creditably  to  me,  does  it — 
that  I  should  have  had  any  questions?" 

Hawkins  shook  his  head. 

"I  didn't  mean  it  that  way,"  he  said  earnestly.  "It 
would  have  been  a  wonder  if  you  hadn't.  Anyway, 
you  had  a  right  to  know,  and  it  was  only  fair  to 
Claire." 


—  IX  — 

THE  CONSPIRATORS 

JOHN  BRUCE  fumbled  in  the  pocket  of  hi.s  dress- 
ing  gown  and  produced  a  cigarette ;  but  he  was  a 
long  time  in  lighting  it. 

"Hawkins,"  he  demanded  abruptly,  "is  Paul  Veniza 
in  the  house  now?" 

"He's  upstairs,  I  think,"  Hawkins  answered.  "Do 
you  want  him?" 

"Yes — in  a  moment,"  said  John  Bruce  slowly.  "I've 
been  thinking  a  good  deal  while  you  were  talking.  I 
can  only  see  things  one  way;  and  that  is  that  the  time 
has  come  when  you  should  take  your  place  as  Claire's 
father." 

The  old  man  drew  back,  startled. 

"Tell  Claire?"  he  whispered.  Then  he  shook  his 
head  miserably.  "No,  no!  I — I  haven't  earned  the 
right.  I — I  can't  break  my  word  to  Paul." 

"I  do  not  ask  you  to  break  your  word  to  Paul.  I 
want  you  to  earn  the  right — now." 

Hawkins  was  still  shaking  his  head. 

"Earn  it  now — after  all  these  years!    How  can  I?" 

"By  promising  that  you  won't  drink  any  more,"  said 
John  Bruce  quietly. 

Hawkins'  eyes  went  to  the  floor. 

"Promise!"  he  said  in  a  shamed  way.  "I've  been 
promising  that  for  twenty  years.  Paul  wouldn't 

129 


1 30  PAWNED 

believe  me.  I  wouldn't  believe  myself.  I  went  and 
got  drunker  than  I've  been  in  all  my  life  the  night  that 
dog  said  he  was  going  to  marry  Claire,  and  Claire  said 
it  was  true,  and  wouldn't  listen  to  anything  Paul  could 
say  to  her  against  it." 

"I  would  believe  you,"  said  John  Bruce  gravely. 

For  an  instant  Hawkins'  face  glowed,  while  tears 
came  into  the  old  blue  eyes — and  then  he  turned  hur- 
riedly and  walked  to  the  window,  his  back  to  John 
Bruce. 

"It's  no  use,"  he  said,  with  a  catch  in  his  voice. 
"You  don't  know  me.  Nobody  that  knows  me  would 
take  my  word  for  that — least  of  all  Paul." 

"I  know  this,"  said  John  Bruce  steadily,  "that  you 
have  never  been  really  put  to  the  test.  The  test  is 
here  now.  You'd  stop,  and  stop  forever,  wouldn't 
you,  if  it  meant  Claire's  happiness,  her  future,  her  sal- 
vation from  the  horror  and  degradation  and  misery 
and  utter  hopelessness  that  a  life  with  a  man  who  is 
lost  to  every  sense  of  decency  must  bring  her?  I 
would  believe  you  if  you  promised  under  those  con- 
ditions. It  seems  to  me  to  be  the  only  chance  there 
is  left  to  save  her.  It  is  true  she  believes  Paul  is  her 
father  and  accepts  him  as  such,  and  neither  his  influ- 
ence nor  his  arguments  will  move  her  from  her  deter- 
mination to  marry  Crang;  but  I  think  there  is  a  chance 
if  she  is  told  your  story,  if  she  is  brought  to  her  own 
father  through  this  very  thing.  I  think  if  you  are  in 
each  other's  arms  at  last  after  all  these  years  from  just 
that  cause  it  might  succeed  where  everything  else 
failed.  But  this  much  is  sure.  It  has  a  chance  of  suc- 
cess, and  you  owe  Claire  that  chance.  Will  you  take 
it,  Hawkins?  Will  you  promise?" 


THE  CONSPIRATORS  131 

There  was  no  answer  from  the  window,  only  the 
shaking  of  the  old  man's  shoulders. 

"Hawkins,"  said  John  Bruce  softly,  "wouldn't  it  be 
very  wonderful  if  you  saved  her,  and  saved  yourself; 
and  wonderful,  too,  to  know  the  joy  of  your  own 
daughter's  love?" 

The  old  man  turned  suddenly  from  the  window,  his 
arms  stretched  out  before  him  as  though  in  intense 
yearning;  and  there  was  something  almost  of  nobility 
in  the  gray  head  held  high  on  the  bent  shoulders,  some- 
thing of  greatness  in  the  old  wrinkled  face  that  seemed 
to  exalt  the  worn  and  shabby  clothes  hanging  so  form- 
lessly  about  him. 

"My  little  girl,"  he  said  brokenly. 

"Your  promise,  Hawkins,"  said  John  Bruce  in  a  low 
voice.  "Will  you  promise?" 

"Yes,"  breathed  the  old  man  fiercely.  "Yes — so 
help  me,  God!  But" — he  faltered  suddenly — "but 
Paul " 

"Ask  Paul  to  come  down  here,"  said  John  Bruce. 
"I  have  something  to  say  to  both  of  you — more  than 
I  have  already  said  to  you.  I  will  answer  for  Paul." 

The  old  cab  driver  obeyed  mechanically.  He 
crossed  the  room  and  went  out.  John  Bruce  heard  him 
mounting  the  stairs.  Presently  he  returned,  followed 
by  the  tall,  straight,  white-haired  figure  of  Paul 
Veniza. 

Hawkins  closed  the  door  behind  them. 

Paul  Veniza  turned  sharply  at  the  sound,  and 
glanced  gravely  from  one  to  the  other.  His  eyebrows 
went  up  as  he  looked  at  John  Bruce.  John  Bruce's 
face  was  set. 


i32  PAWNED 

"What  is  the  matter?"  inquired  Paul  Veniza  anx- 
iously. 

"I  want  you  to  listen  first  to  a  little  story,"  said  John 
Bruce  seriously — and  in  a  few  words  he  told  Paul 
Veniza,  as  he  had  told  Hawkins,  of  his  love  for  Claire 
and  the  events  of  the  night  that  had  brought  him  there 
a  wounded  man.  "And  this  afternoon,"  John  Bruce 
ended,  "I  asked  Claire  to  marry  me,  and  she  told  me 
she  was  going  to  marry  Doctor  Crang." 

Paul  Veniza  had  listened  with  growing  anxiety,  cast- 
ing troubled  and  uncertain  glances  the  while  at  Haw- 
kins. 

"Yes,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

/  ' 

John  Bruce  spoke  abruptly: 

"Hawkins  has  promised  he  will  never  drink  again." 

Paul  Veniza,  with  a  sudden  start,  stared  at  Hawkins, 
and  then  a  sort  of  kindly  tolerance  dawned  in  his  face. 

"My  poor  friend!"  said  Paul  Veniza  as  though  he 
were  comforting  a  wayward  child,  and  went  over  and 
laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  Hawkins'  arm. 

"I  have  told  Hawkins,"  went  on  John  Bruce,  "that 
I  love  Claire,  that  I  asked  her  to  marry  me;  and  Haw- 
kins in  turn  has  told  me  he  is  Claire's  father,  and  how 
he  brought  her  to  you  and  Mrs.  Veniza  when  she  was 
a  baby,  and  of  the  pledge  he  made  you  then.  It  is 
because  I  love  Claire  too  that  I  feel  I  can  speak  now. 
You  once  told  Hawkins  how  he  could  redeem  his 
daughter.  He  wants  to  redeem  her  now.  He  has 
promised  never  to  drink  again." 

Paul  Veniza's  face  had  whitened  a  little.  Half  in  a 
startled,  half  in  a  troubled  way,  he  looked  once  more 
at  John  Bruce  and  then  at  Hawkins. 

"My  poor  friend!"  he  said  again. 


THE  CONSPIRATORS  133 

John  Bruce's  hand  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  clenched 
suddenly. 

"You  may  perhaps  feel  that  he  should  not  have  told 
me  of  his  relationship  to  Claire ;  but  it  was  this  damna- 
ble situation  with  Crang  that  forced  the  issue." 

Paul  Veniza  left  Hawkins'  side  and  began  to  pace 
the  room  in  an  agitated  way. 

"No !"  he  said  heavily.  "I  do  not  blame  Hawkins. 
We — we  neither  of  us  know  what  to  do.  It  is  a  terri- 
ble, an  awful  thing.  Crang  is  like  some  loathesome  crea- 
ture to  her,  and  yet  in  some  way  that  I  cannot  discover 
he  has  got  her  into  his  power.  I  have  tried  everything, 
used  every  argument  I  can  with  her,  pleaded  with  her 
— and  it  has  been  useless."  He  raised  his  arms  sud- 
denly above  his  head,  partly  it  seemed  in  supplication, 
partly  in  menace.  "Oh,  God!"  he  cried  out.  "I,  too, 
love  her,  for  she  has  really  been  my  daughter  through 
all  these  years.  But  I  do  not  quite  understand."  He 
turned  to  Hawkins.  "Even  if  you  kept  your  promise 
now,  my  friend,  what  connection  has  that  with  Doctor 
Crang?  Could  that  in  any  way  prevent  this  mar- 
riage?" 

It  was  John  Bruce  who  answered. 

"It  is  the  last  ditch,"  he  said  evenly;  "the  one  way 
you  have  not  tried — to  tell  her  her  own  and  her 
father's  story.  I  do  not  say  it  will  succeed.  But  it  is 
the  great  crisis  in  her  life.  It  is  the  one  thing  in  the 
world  that  ought  to  sway  her,  win  her.  Her  father! 
After  twenty  years — her  father!" 

Paul  Veniza's  hands,  trembling,  ruffled  through  his 
white  hair.  Hawkins'  fingers  fumbled,  now  with  the 
buttons  on  his  vest,  now  with  the  brim  of  his  hat  which 
he  had  picked  up  aimlessly  from  the  table;  and  his  eyes, 


134  PAWNED 

lifting  from  the  floor,  glanced  timorously,  almost  fur- 
tively, at  Paul  Veniza,  and  sought  the  floor  again. 

John  Bruce  got  up  from  his  chair  and  stepped 
toward  them. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  he  said  sharply, 
"that  ought  to  put  an  end  to  any  hesitation  on  your 
parts  at  any  plan,  no  matter  what,  that  offers  even  the 
slightest  chance  of  stopping  this  marriage.  Listen ! 
Devil  though  you  both  believe  this  Crang  to  be,  you  do 
not  either  of  you  even  know  the  man  for  what  he  is. 
While  I  was  lying  there" — he  flung  out  his  hand  im- 
pulsively toward  the  couch — "the  safe  here  in  this 
room  was  opened  and  robbed  one  night.  You  know 
that.  But  you  do  not  know  that  it  was  done  by  Doctor 
Crang  and  his  confederates.  You  know  what  hap- 
pened. But  you  do  not  know  that  while  the  'burglars' 
pretended  to  hold  Crang  at  bay  with  a  revolver  and 
then  made  their  'escape,'  Crang,  with  most  of  the  pro- 
ceeds of  that  robbery  in  his  own  pockets,  was  laughing 
up  his  sleeve  at  you." 

Hawkins'  jaw  had  dropped  as  he  stared  at  John 
Bruce. 

"Crang  did  it!  You — you  say  Crang  committed 
that  robbery?"  stammered  Paul  Veniza.  "But  you 
were  unconscious  1  Still  you — you  seem  to  know  that 
the  safe  was  robbed!" 

"Apparently  I  do!"  John  Bruce  laughed  shortly. 
"Crang  too  thought  I  was  unconscious,  but  to  make 
sure  he  jabbed  me  with  his  needle.  It  took  effect  just 
at  the  right  time — for  Crang — just  as  you  and  Claire 
appeared  in  the  doorway.  And" — his  brows  knitted 
together — "it  seems  a  little  strange  that  none  of  you 


THE  CONSPIRATORS  135 

have  ever  mentioned  it  in  my  presence;  that  not  a  word 
has  ever  been  said  to  me  about  it." 

Paul  Veniza  coughed  nervously. 

"You  were  sick,"  he  said;  "too  sick,  we  thought,  for 
any  excitement." 

Hawkins  suddenly  leaned  forward ;  his  wrinkled  face 
was  earnest. 

"That  is  not  true !"  he  said  bluntly.  "It  might  have 
been  at  first,  but  it  wasn't  after  you  got  better.  It  was 
mostly  your  money  that  was  stolen.  Claire  put  it  there 
the  night  you  came  here,  and " 

"Hawkins!"  Paul  Veniza  called  out  sharply  in 
reproof. 

"But  he  knows  now  it's  gone,"  said  the  old  cabman 
a  little  helplessly.  He  blundered  on:  "Paul  felt  he 
was  responsible  for  your  money,  and  he  was  afraid  you 
might  not  want  to  take  it  if  you  knew  he  had  to  make 
it  up  out  of  his  own  pocket,  and " 

John  Bruce  took  a  step  forward,  and  laid  his  hand 
on  Paul  Veniza's  shoulder.  He  stood  silently,  looking 
at  the  other. 

"It  is  nothing!"  said  Paul  Veniza,  abashed. 

"Perhaps  not!"  said  John  Bruce.  "But"— he 
turned  abruptly  away,  his  lips  tight — "it  just  made 
me  think  for  a  minute.  In  the  life  I've  led  men  like 
you  are  rare." 

"We  were  speaking  of  Doctor  Crang,"  said  Paul 
Veniza  a  little  awkwardly.  "If  you  know  that  Doctor 
Crang  is  the  thief,  then  that  is  the  way  out  of  our 
trouble.  Instead  of  marrying  Claire,  he  will  be  sent 
to  prison." 

John  Bruce  shook  his  head. 

"You  said  yourself  I  was  unconscious  at  the  time. 


136  PAWNED 

You  certainly  must  have  found  me  that  way,  and 
Crang  would  make  you  testify  that  for  days  I  had  been 
raving  in  delirium.  I  do  not  think  you  could  convict 
him  on  my  testimony." 

"But  even  so,"  said  Paul  Veniza,  ''there  is  Claire. 
If  she  knew  that  Crang  was  a  criminal,  she " 

"She  does  know,"  said  John  Bruce  tersely. 

"Claire  knows!"  ejaculated  Paul  Veniza  in  surprise. 
"You — you  told  her,  then?" 

"No,"  John  Bruce  answered.  "I  said  to  her:  'Sup- 
pose I  were  to  tell  you  that  the  man  is  a  criminal?' 
She  answered:  'He  is  a  criminal/  I  said  then:  'Sup- 
pose he  were  sent  to  jail — to  serve  a  sentence?'  She 
answered:  'I  would  marry  him  when  he  came  out.' ' 

"My  God!"  mumbled  the  old  cabman  miserably. 

"I  tell  you  this,"  said  John  Bruce  through  set  teeth, 
and  speaking  directly  to  Paul  Veniza,  "because  it 
seems  to  me  to  be  the  final  proof  that  mere  argument 
with  Claire  is  useless,  and  that  something  more  is 
necessary.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  release  Hawkins  from 
his  pledge;  I  ask  you  to  believe  his  promise  this  time 
because  back  of  it  he  knows  it  may  save  Claire  from 
what  would  mean  worse  than  death  to  her.  I  believe 
him;  I  will  vouch  for  him.  Do  you  agree,  Paul 
Veniza?" 

For  an  instant  the  white-haired  pawnbroker  seemed 
lost  in  thought;  then  he  nodded  his  head  gravely. 

"In  the  last  few  days,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  have  felt 
that  it  was  no  longer  my  province  to  masquerade  as 
her  father.  I  know  that  my  influence  is  powerless.  As 
you  have  said,  it  is  the  crisis,  a  very  terrible  crisis,  in 
her  life."  He  turned  toward  Hawkins,  and  held  out 


THE  CONSPIRATORS  137 

his  hand.  "My  old  friend" — his  voice  broke — "I  pray 
Heaven  to  aid  you — to  aid  us  all." 

Hawkins'  blue  eyes  filled  suddenly  with  tears. 

"You  believe  me,  too,  Paul,  this  time!"  he  said  in 
a  choking  voice.  "Listen,  Paul!  I  promise!  So  help 
me,  God — I  promise!" 

A  lump  had  somehow  risen  in  John  Bruce's  throat. 
He  turned  away,  and  for  a  moment  there  was  silence 
in  the  room.  And  then  he  heard  Paul  Veniza  speak: 

"She  is  dear  to  us  all.  Let  us  call  her — unless,  my 
old  friend,  you  would  rather  be  alone." 

"No,  no!"  Hawkins  cried  hurriedly.  "I — I  want 
you  both;  but — but  not  now,  don't  call  her  now."  He 
swept  his  hands  over  his  shabby,  ill-fitting  clothes.  "I 
— not  like  this.  I " 

"Yes,"  said  Paul  Veniza  gently,  "I  understand — and 
you  are  right.  This  evening  then — at  eight  o'clock. 
You  will'  come  back  here,  my  old  friend,  at  eight 
o'clock.  And  do  you  remember,  it  was  in  this  very 
room,  twenty  years  ago,  that "  He  did  not  com- 
plete his  sentence;  the  hot  tears  were  streaming 
unashamed  down  his  cheeks. 

John  Bruce  was  staring  out  of  the  window,  the  panes 
of  which  seemed  curiously  blurred. 

"Come,"  he  heard  Paul  Veniza  say. 

And  then,  as  the  two  men  reached  the  door,  John 
Bruce  looked  around.  Hawkins  had  turned  on  the 
threshold.  Something  seemed  to  have  transfigured  the 
old  cab  driver's  face.  It  was  illumined.  There  seemed 
something  of  infinite  pathos  in  the  head  held  high,  in 
the  drooped  shoulders  resolutely  squared. 

"My  little  girl !"  said  Hawkins  tenderly.  "To-night 
at  eight  o'clock — my  little  girl!" 


—  X  — 

AT  FIVE  MINUTES  TO  EIGHT 

BEFORE  the  rickety  washstcmd  and  in  front  of 
the  cracked  glass  that  served  as  a  mirror  and 
was  suspended  from  a  nail  driven  into  the 
wall,  Hawkins  was  shaving  himself.  Perhaps  the  light 
from  the  wheezing  gas-jet  was  over-bad  that  evening, 
or  perhaps  it  was  only  in  playful  and  facetious  mood 
with  the  mirror  acting  the  role  of  co-conspirator;  Haw- 
kins'  chin  smarted  and  was  raw;  little  specks  of  red 
showed  here  and  there  through  the  repeated  coats  of 
lather  which  he  kept  scraping  off  with  his  razor.  But 
Hawkins  appeared  willing  to  sacrifice  even  the  skin 
itself  to  obtain  the  standard  of  smoothness  which  he 
had  evidently  set  before  himself  as  his  goal.  And  so 
over  and  over  again  he  applied  the  lather,  and  hoed  it 
off,  and  tested  the  result  by  rubbing  thumb  and  fore- 
finger critically  over  his  face.  He  made  no  grimace, 
nor  did  he  show  any  irritation  at  the  none-too-keen 
blade  that  played  havoc  with  more  than  the  lather,  nor 
did  he  wince  at  what  must  at  times  have  been  anything 
but  a  painless  operation.  Hawkins'  round,  weather- 
beaten  face  and  old  watery  blue  eyes  smiled  into  the 
mirror. 

On  the  washstand  beside  him  lay  a  large,  ungainly 
silver  watch,  its  case  worn  smooth  with  years  of  serv- 
ice. It  had  a  hunting-case,  and  it  was  open.  Hawkins 
glanced  at  it.  It  was  twenty  minutes  to  eight. 

138 


AT  FIVE  MINUTES  TO  EIGHT        139 

"I  got  to  hurry,"  said  Hawkins  happily.  "Just 
twenty  minutes — after  twenty  years." 

Hawkins  laid  aside  the  razor,  and  washed  and 
scrubbed  at  his  face  until  it  shone ;  then  he  went  to  his 
trunk  and  opened  it.  From  underneath  the  tray  he 
lifted  out  an  old  black  suit.  Perhaps  again  it  was 
the  gas-jet  in  either  baleful  or  facetious  mood,  for,  as 
he  put  on  the  suit,  the  cloth  in  spots  seemed  to  possess, 
here  a  rusty,  and  there  a  greenish,  tinge,  and  elsewhere 
to  be  woefully  shiny.  Also,  but  of  this  the  gas-jet  could 
not  have  been  held  guilty,  the  coat  and  trousers,  and 
indeed  the  waistcoat,  were  undeniably  most  sadly 
wrinkled. 

And  now  there  seemed  to  be  something  peculiarly 
congruous  as  between  the  feeble  gas-jet,  the  cracked 
mirror,  the  wobbly  washstand,  the  threadbare  strip  of 
carpet  that  lay  beside  the  iron  bed,  and  the  old  bent- 
shouldered  figure  with  wrinkled  face  in  wrinkled  finery 
that  stood  there  knotting  with  anxious,  awkward  fin- 
gers a  large,  frayed,  black  cravat  about  his  neck;  there 
seemed  to  be  something  strikingly  in  keeping  between 
the  man  and  his  surroundings,  a  sort  of  common  inti- 
macy, as  it  were,  with  the  twilight  of  an  existence  that, 
indeed,  had  never  known  the  full  sunlight  of  high  noon. 

It  was  ten  minutes  to  eight. 

Hawkins  put  the  silver  watch  in  his  pocket,  extin- 
guished the  spluttering  gas-jet,  that  hissed  at  him  as 
though  in  protest  at  the  scant  ceremony  with  which  it 
was  treated,  and  went  down  the  stairs.  He  stepped 
briskly  out  on  the  street. 

"Claire!"  said  Hawkins  radiantly.  "My  little 
Claire!  I'm  her  daddy,  and  she's  going  to  know  it. 
I'm  going  to  get  her  to  call  me  that — daddy!" 


I4o  PAWNED 

Hawkins  walked  on  halfway  along  the  block,  erect, 
with  a  quick,  firm  step,  his  head  high,  smiling  into  every 
face  he  met — and  turning  to  smile  again,  conscious  that 
people  as  they  passed  had  turned  to  look  back  at  him. 
And  then  very  gradually  Hawkins'  pace  slackened,  and 
into  his  face  and  eyes  there  came  a  dawning  anxiety, 
and  the  smile  was  gone. 

"I'm  kind  of  forgetting,"  said  Hawkins  presently 
to  himself,  "that  it  ain't  just  that  I'm  getting  my  little 
girl.  I — I'm  kind  of  forgetting  her  trouble.  There — 
there's  Crang." 

The  old  man's  face  was  furrowed  now  deep  with 
storm  and  care ;  he  walked  still  more  slowly.  He  began 
to  mutter  to  himself.  At  the  corner  of  the  street  he 
raised  an  old  gnarled  fist  and  shook  it,  clenched,  above 
his  head,  unconscious  and  oblivious  now  that  people 
still  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

And  then  a  little  way  ahead  of  him  along  the  street 
that  he  must  go  to  reach  the  one-time  pawn-shop  of 
Paul  Veniza,  his  eyes  caught  the  patch  of  light  that 
filtered  out  to  the  sidewalk  from  under  the  swinging 
doors  of  the  familiar  saloon,  and  from  the  windows 
in  a  more  brilliant  flood. 

Hawkins  drew  in  a  long  breath. 

"No,  no!"  he  whispered  fiercely.-  "I  will  never  go 
in  there  again — so  help  me,  God !  If  I  did — and — and 
she  knew  it  was  her  daddy,  it  would  just  break  her 
heart  like — like  Crang'll  break  it." 

He  went  on,  but  his  footsteps  seemed  to  drag  the 
more  now  as  he  approached  the  saloon.  His  hand  as 
he  raised  it  trembled;  and  as  he  brushed  it  across  his 
brow  it  came  away  wet  with  sweat. 

The  saloon  was  just  a  yard  away  from  him  now. 


AT  FIVE  MINUTES  TO  EIGHT       141 

There  was  a  strange,  feverish  glitter  in  the  blue  eyes. 
His  face  was  chalky  white. 

"So  help  me,  God!"  Hawkins  mumbled  hoarsely. 

It  was  five  minutes  of  eight. 

Hawkins  had  halted  in  front  of  the  swinging  doors. 


—  XI  — 

THE  RENDEZVOUS 

PAUL  VENIZA,  pacing  restlessly  about  the 
room,  glanced  surreptitiously  at  his  watch,  and 
then  glanced  anxiously  at  John  Bruce. 

John  Bruce  in  turn  stole  a  look  at  Claire.  His  lips 
tightened  a  little.  Since  she  had  been  told  nothing,  she 
was  quite  unconscious,  of  course,  that  it  mattered  at  all 
because  it  was  already  long  after  eight  o'clock;  that 
Hawkins  in  particular,  or  any  one  else  in  general,  was 
expected  to  join  the  little  evening  circle  here  in  what  he, 
John  Bruce,  had  by  now  almost  come  to  call  his  room. 
His  forehead  gathered  in  a  frown.  What  was  it  that 
was  keeping  Hawkins? 

Claire's  face  was  full  in  the  light,  and  as  she  sat 
there  at  the  table,  busy  with  some  sewing,  it  seemed 
to  John  Bruce  that,  due  perhaps  to  the  perspective  of 
what  he  now  knew,  he  detected  a  weariness  in  her  eyes 
and  in  sharp  lines  around  her  mouth,  that  he  had  not 
noticed  before.  It  was  Crang,  of  course ;  but  perhaps 
he  too— what  he  had  said  to  her  that  afternoon — his 
love — had  not  made  it  any  easier  for  her. 

Paul  Veniza  continued  his  restless  pacing  about  the 
room. 

"Father,  do  sit  down!"  said  Claire  suddenly. 
"What  makes  you  so  nervous  to-night?  Is  anything 
the  matter?" 

142 


THE  RENDEZVOUS  143 

"The  matter?  No  I  No,  no;  of  course  not!"  said 
Paul  Veniza  hurriedly. 

"But  I'm  sure  there  is,"  said  Claire,  with  a  positive 
little  nod  of  her  head.  "With  both  of  you,  for  that 
matter.  Mr.  Bruce  has  done  nothing  but  fidget  with 
the  tassel  of  that  dressing  gown  for  the  last  half  hour." 

John  Bruce  let  the  tassel  fall  as  though  it  had  sud- 
denly burned  his  fingers. 

"I?    Not  at  all!"  he  denied  stoutly. 

"Oh,  dear!"  sighed  Claire,  with  mock  plaintiveness. 
"What  bores  you  two  men  are,  then!  I  wish  I  could 
send  out — what  do  you  call  it? — a  thought  wave,  and 
inspire  some  one,  and  most  of-  all  Hawkins,  to  come 
over  here  this  evening.  He,  at  least,  is  never  deadly 
dull." 

Neither  of  the  two  men  spoke. 

"You  don't  know  Hawkins,  do  you,  Mr.  Bruce?" 
Claire  went  on.  She  was  smiling  now  as  she  looked  at 
John  Bruce.  "I  mean  really  know  him,  of  course.  He's 
a  dear,  quaint,  lovable  soul,  and  I'm  so  fond  of  him." 

"I'm  sure  he  is,"  said  John  Bruce  heartily.  "Even 
from  the  little  I've  seen  of  him  I'd  trust  him  with — 
well,  you  know" — John  Bruce  coughed  as  his  words 
stumbled — "I  mean,  I'd  take  his  word  for  anything." 

"Of  course,  you  would!"  asserted  Claire.  "You 
couldn't  think  of  doing  anything  else — nobody  could. 
He's  just  as  honest  as — as — well,  as  father  there,  and 
I  don't  know  any  one  more  honest."  She  smiled  at 
Paul  Veniza,  and  then  her  face  grew  very  earnest.  "I'm 
going  to  tell  you  something  about  Hawkins,  and  some- 
thing that  even  you  never  knew,  father.  Ever  since 
I  was  old  enough  to  remember  any  one,  I  remember 
Hawkins.  And  when  I  got  old  enough  to  understand 


144  PAWNED 

at  all,  though  I  could  never  get  him  to  talk  about  it, 
I  knew  his  life  wasn't  a  very  happy  one,  and  perhaps 
I  loved  him  all  the  more  for  that  reason.  Hawkins 
used  to  drink  a  great  deal.  Everybody  knew  it.  I — 
I  never  felt  I  had  the  right  to  speak  to  him  about  it, 
though  it  made  me  feel  terribly,  until — until  mother 
died." 

Claire  had  dropped  her  sewing  in  her  lap,  and  now 
she  picked  it  up  again  and  fumbled  with  it  nervously. 

"I  spoke  to  him  then,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "I 
told  him  how  much  you  needed  him,  father;  and  how 
glad  and  happy  it  would  make  me.  And — and  I 
remember  so  well  his  words:  'I  promise,  Claire.  I 
promise,  so  help  me,  God,  that  I  will  never  drink 
another  drop.' '  Claire  looked  up,  her  face  aglow. 
"And  I  know,  no  matter  what  anybody  says,  that  from 
that  day  to  this,  he  never  has." 

Paul  Veniza,  motionless  now  in  the  center  of  the 
room,  was  staring  at  her  in  a  sort  of  numbed  fasci- 
nation. 

John  Bruce  was  staring  at  the  door.  He  had  heard, 
he  thought,  a  step  in  the  outer  room. 

The  door  opened. 

Hawkins  stood  there.  He  plucked  at  his  frayed, 
black  cravat,  which  was  awry.  He  lurched  against  the 
jamb,  and  in  groping  unsteadily  for  support  his  hat  fell 
from  his  other  hand  and  rolled  across  the  floor. 

Hawkins  reeled  into  the  room. 

"Good — hie! — good-evenin',"  said  Hawkins  thickly. 

Claire  alone  moved.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  but  as 
though  her  weight  were  too  heavy  for  her  limbs.  Her 
lips  quivered. 


THE  RENDEZVOUS  145: 

"Oh,  Hawkins!"  she  cried  out  pitifully — and  burst 
into  tears,  and  ran  from  the  room. 

It  seemed  to  John  Bruce  that  for  a  moment  the 
room  swirled  around  before  his  eyes;  and  then  over- 
him  swept  an  uncontrollable  desire  to  get  his  hands 
upon  this  maudlin,  lurching  creature.  Rage,  disgust, 
a  bitter  resentment,  a  mad  hunger  for  reprisal  pos- 
sessed him;  Claire's  future,  her  faith  which  she  had 
but  a  moment  gone  so  proudly  vaunted,  were  all  shat- 
tered, swept  to  the  winds,  by  this  seedy,  dissolute 
wreck.  Her  father!  No,  her  shame!  Thank  God 
she  did  not  know ! 

"You  drunken  beast!"  he  gritted  in  merciless  fury,, 
and  stepped  suddenly  forward. 

But  halfway  across  the  room  he  halted  as  though 
turned  to  stone.  Hawkins  wasn't  lurching  any  more. 
Hawkins  had  turned  and  closed  the  door;  and  Haw- 
kins now,  with  his  face  white  and  drawn,  a  look  in  his 
old  blue  eyes  that  mingled  agony  and  an  utter  hopeless- 
ness, sank  into  a  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

It  was  Paul  Veniza  who  moved  now.  He  went  and 
stood  behind  the  old  cabman. 

Hawkins  looked  up. 

"You  are  sober.  What  does  this  mean?"  Paul 
Veniza  asked  heavily. 

Hawkins  shook  his  head. 

"I  couldn't  do  it,"  he  said  in  a  broken  voice.  "And 
— and  I've  settled  it  once  for  all  now.  I  got  to  think- 
ing as  I  came  along  to-night,  and  I  found  out  that  it 
wasn't  any  good  for  me  to  swear  I  wasn't  going  to 
touch  anything  any  more.  I'm  afraid  of  myself.  I — 
I  came  near  going  into  the  saloon.  It — it  taught  me 
something,  that  did;  because  the  only  way  I  could  get: 


146  PAWNED 

by  was  to  promise  myself  I'd  go  back  there  after  I'd 
been  here." 

Hawkins  paused.  A  flush  dyed  his  cheeks.  He 
turned  around  and  looked  at  Paul  Veniza  again,  and 
then  at  John  Bruce. 

"You  don't  understand — neither  of  you  understand. 
Once  I  promised  Claire  that  I'd  stop,  and — and  until 
just  now  she  believed  me.  And  I've  hurt  her.  But  I 
ain't  broken  her  heart.  It  was  only  old  Hawkins,  just 
Hawkins,  who  promised  her  then;  it  would  have  been 
her  father  who  promised  her  to-night,  and — and  it  ain't 
any  good,  I'd  have  broken  that  promise,  I  know  it  now 
— and  she  ain't  ever  going  to  share  that  shame." 

Hawkins  brushed  his  hands  across  his  eyes. 

"And  then,"  he  went  on,  a  sudden  fierceness  in  his 
voice,  "suppose  she'd  had  that  on  top  of  Crang,  'cause 
it  ain't  sure  that  knowing  who  I  am  would  have  saved 
her  from  him!  Oh,  my  God,  she'd  better  be  dead! 
I'd  rather  see  her  dead.  You're  wrong,  John  Bruce! 
It  wasn't  the  way.  You  meant  right,  and  God  bless 
you;  but  it  wasn't  the  way.  I  saw  it  all  so  clearly  after 
— after  I'd  got  past  that  saloon;  and — and  then  it  was 
all  right  for  me  to  promise  myself  that  I'd  go  back. 
It  wouldn't  hurt  her  none  then." 

John  Bruce  cleared  his  throat. 

"I  don't  quite  understand  what  you  mean  by  that, 
Hawkins,"  he  said  a  little  huskily. 

Hawkins  rose  slowly  to  his  feet. 

"I  dressed  all  up  for  this,"  said  Hawkins,  with  a 
wan  smile;  "but  something's  snappeu  here — inside 
here."  His  hand  felt  a  little  aimlessly  over  his  heart. 
"I  know  now  that  I  ain't  ever  going  to  be  worthy;  and 
I  know  now  that  she  ain't  ever  to  know  that  I — that  I 


THE  RENDEZVOUS  147 

— I'm  her  old  daddy.  And  so  I — I've  fixed  it  just 
now  like  you  saw  so  there  ain't  no  going  back  on  it. 
But  I  ain't  throwing  my  little  girl  down.  It  ain't  Claire 
that's  got  to  be  made  change  her  mind — it's  Crang." 
He  raised  a  clenched  fist.  "And  Crang's  going  to 
change  it !  I  can  swear  to  that  and  know  I'll  keep  it, 
so— so  help  me,  God !  And  when  she's  rid  of  him,  she 
ain't  going  to  have  no  shame  and  sorrow  from  me. 
That's  what  I  meant." 

"Yes,"  said  John  Bruce  mechanically. 

"I'm  going  now,"  said  Hawkins  in  a  low  voice. 

"Around  by  the  other  way,"  said  Paul  Veniza  softly. 
"And  I'll  go  with  you,  old  friend." 

For  a  moment  Hawkins  hesitated,  and  then  he 
nodded  his  head. 

No  one  spoke.  Paul  Veniza's  arm  was  around 
Hawkins'  shoulders  as  they  left  the  room.  The  door 
closed  behind  them.  John  Bruce  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  his  bed. 


—  XII  — 

THE  FIGHT 

FOR  a  long  time  John  Bruce  stared  at  the  closed 
door;  first  a  little  helplessly  because  the  bottom 
seemed  quite  to  have  dropped  out  of  things, 
and  then  with  set  face  as  the  old  cabman's  words  came 
back  to  him:  "Crang — not  Claire."  And  at  this,  a 
sort  of  merciless  joy  crept  into  his  eyes,  and  he  nodded 
his  head  in  savage  satisfaction.  Yes,  Hawkins  had 
been  right  in  that  respect,  and — well,  it  would  be 
easier  to  deal  with  Crang! 

And  then  suddenly  John  Bruce's  face  softened. 
Hawkins!  He  remembered  the  fury  with  which  the 
old  man  had  inspired  him  as  the  other  had  reeled  into 
the  room,  and  Clare,  hurt  and  miserable,  had  risen 
from  her  chair.  But  he  remembered  Hawkins  in  a 
different  way  now.  It  was  Hawkins,  not  Claire,  who 
had  been  hurt.  The  shabby  old  figure  standing  there 
had  paid  a  price,  and  as  he  believed  for  Claire's  sake, 
that  had  put  beyond  his  reach  forever  what  must  have 
meant,  what  did  mean,  all  that  he  cherished  most  in 
life. 

John  Bruce  smiled  a  little  wistfully.  Somehow  he 
envied  Hawkins,  so  pitifully  unstable  and  so  weak — 
his  strength ! 

He  shook  his  head  in  a  puzzled  way.  His  thoughts 
led  him  on.  What  a  strange,  almost  incomprehensible, 

148 


THE  FIGHT  149 

little  world  it  was  into  which  fate,  if  one  wished  to  call 
it  fate,  had  flung  him  I  It  was  an  alien  world  to  him. 
His  own  life  of  the  past  rose  up  in  contrast  with  it — 
not  of  his  own  volition,  but  because  the  comparison 
seemed  to  insist  on  thrusting  itself  upon  him. 

He  had  never  before  met  men  like  Hawkins  and 
Paul  Veniza.  He  had  met  drunkards  and  pawnbrok- 
ers. Very  many  of  them!  He  had  lived  his  life,  or, 
rather,  impoverished  it  with  a  spendthrift  hand,  among 
just  such  classes — but  he  was  conscious  that  it  would 
never  have  been  the  poorer  for  an  intimacy  with  either 
Hawkins  or  Paul  Veniza. 

John  Bruce  raised  his  head  abruptly.  The  front 
door  had  opened.  A  moment  later  a  footstep  sounded 
in  the  outer  room,  and  then  upon  the  stairs.  That 
would  be  Paul  Veniza  returning  of  course,  though  he 
hadn't  been  gone  very  long;  or  was  it  that  he,  John 
Bruce,  had  been  sitting  here  staring  at  that  closed  door 
for  a  far  longer  period  than  he  had  imagined? 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  dismissing  the  interrup- 
tion from  his  mind,  and  again  the  wistful  smile  flickered 
on  his  lips. 

So  that  was  why  nothing  had  been  said  in  his  hear- 
ing about  the  robbery!  Queer  people — with  their 
traveling  pawn-shop,  which  was  bizarre;  and  their 
standards  of  honesty,  and  their  unaffected  hospitality 
which  verged  on  the  bizarre  too,  because  their  genuine- 
ness and  simplicity  were  so  unostentatious — and  so 
rare.  And  somehow,  suddenly,  as  he  sat  there  with  his 
chin  cupped  now  in  his  hands,  he  was  not  proud  of  this 
contrast — himself  on  the  one  hand,  a  drunkard  and 
a  pawnbroker  on  the  other ! 

And  then  John  Bruce  raised  his  head  again,  sharply 


i5o  PAWNED 

this  time,  almost  in  a  startled  way.    Was  that  a  cry — 
in  a  woman's  voice?    It  was  muffled  by  the  closed  door, 

and   it  was   perhaps  therefore   his  imagination;   but 

j«-         ; 

He  was  on  his  feet.  It  had  come  again.  No  door 
could  have  shut  it  out  from  his  ears.  It  was  from 
Claire  upstairs,  and  the  cry  seemed  most  curiously  to 
mingle  terror  and  a  passionate  anger.  He  ran  across 
the  .room  and  threw  the  door  open.  It  was  strange  I 
It  would  be  Paul  Veniza  in  a  new  role,  if  the  gentle, 
white-haired  old  pawnbroker  could  inspire  terror  in 
any  one ! 

A  rasping,  jeering  oath — in  a  man's  voice  this  time 
— reached  him.  John  Bruce,  a  sudden  fury  whipping 
his  blood  into  fire,  found  himself  stumbling  up  the 
stairs.  It  wasn't  Veniza!  His  mind  seemed  to  con- 
vert that  phrase  into  a  sing-song  refrain:  "It  wasn't 
Veniza!  It  wasn't  Veniza!" 

Claire's  voice  came  to  him  distinctly  now,  and  therfc 
was  the  same  terror  in  it,  the  same  passionate  anger 
that  he  had  distinguished  in  her  cry: 

"Keep  away  from  me !  I  loathe  you !  It  is  men  like 
you  that  prompt  a  woman  to  murder!  But — but 
instead,  I  have  prayed  God  with  all  my  soul  to  let  me 

die  before "  Her  voice  ended  in  a  sharp  cry,  a 

scuffle  of  feet. 

It  was  Crang  in  there !  John  Bruce,  now  almost  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs,  was  unconscious  that  he  was  pant- 
ing heavily  from  his  exertions,  unconscious  of  every- 
thing save  a  new  refrain  that  had  taken  possession  of 
his  mind:  "It  was  Crang  in  there!  It  was  Crang  in 
there!" 

It  was  the  door  just  at  the  right  of  the  landing. 


THE  FIGHT  151 

Crang's  voice  came  from  there ;  and  the  voice  was  high, 
like  the  squeal  of  an  enraged  animal : 

"You're  mine!  I've  got  a  right  to  those  red  lips, 
you  vixen,  and  I'm  going  to  have  them !  A  man's  got 
the  right  to  take  the  girl  he's  going  to  marry  in  his 
arms !  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  be  held  off  forever? 
You're  mine,  and " 

The  words  were  lost  again  in  a  cry  from  Claire,  and 
in  the  sound  of  a  struggle — a  falling  chair,  the  scuffle 
once  more  of  feet. 

John  Bruce  flung  himself  across  the  hall  and  against 
the  door,  It  yielded  without  resistance,  and  the  impe- 
tus of  his  own  rush  carried  him,  staggering,  far  into 
the  room.  Two  forms  were  circling  there  under  the 
gas  light  as  though  in  the  throes  of  some  mad  dance — • 
only  the  face  of  the  woman  was  deathly  white,  and  her 
small  clenched  fists  beat  frantically  at  the  face  of  the 
man  whose  arms  were  around  her.  John  Bruce  sprang 
forward.  He  laughed  aloud,  unnaturally.  His  brain, 
his  mind,  was  whirling;  but  something  soft  was 
grasped  in  his  two  encircling  hands,  and  that  was  why 
he  laughed-^-because  his  soul  laughed.  His  fingers 
pressed  tighter.  It  was  Crang's  throat  that  was  soft 
under  his  fingers. 

Suddenly  the  room  swirled  around  him.  A  giddi- 
ness seemed  to  seize  upon  him — and  that  soft  thing  in 
his  grip  slipped  from  his  fingers  and  escaped  him.  He 
brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  It  would  pass,  of 
course.  It  was  strange  that  he  should  go  giddy  like 
that,  and  that  his  limbs  should  be  trembling  as  though 
with  the  ague !  Again  he  brushed  his  hand  across  his 
eyes.  It  would  pass  off.  He  could  see  better  now. 
Claire  had  somehow  fallen  to  the  floor;  but  she  was 


I52  PAWNED 

rising  to  her  knees  now,  using  the  side  of  the  bed  for 
support,  and 

Her  voice  rang  wildly  through  the  room. 

"Look  out!    Oh,  look  out!"  she  cried. 

To  John  Bruce  it  seemed  as  though  something  leaped 
at  him  out  of  space — and  struck.  The  blow,  aimed  at 
his  side,  which  was  still  bandaged,  went  home.  It 
brought  an  agony  that  racked  and  tore  and  twisted  at 
every  nerve  in  his  body.  It  wrung  a  moan  from  his 
lips,  it  brought  the  sweat  beads  bursting  out  upon  his 
forehead — but  it  cleared  his  brain. 

Yes,  it  was  Doctor  Crang — but  disreputable  in 
appearance  as  he  had  never  before  seen  the  man. 
Crang's  clothes  were  filthy  and  unkempt,  as  though 
the  man  had  fallen  somewhere  in  the  mire  and  was 
either  unconscious  or  callous  of  the  fact;  his  hair 
draggled  in  a  matted  way  over  his  forehead,  and 
though  his  face  worked  with  passion,  and  the  passion 
brought  a  curious  hectic  rose-color  to  supplant  the  cus- 
tomary lifeless  gray  of  his  cheeks,  the  eyes  were  most 
strangely  glazed  and  fixed. 

And  again  John  Bruce  laughed — and  with  a  vicious 
guard  swept  aside  a  second  blow  aimed  at  his  side,  and 
his  left  fist,  from  a  full  arm  swing,  crashed  to  the  point 
of  Ooctor  Crang's  jaw.  But  the  next  instant  they  had 
closed,  their  arms  locked  around  each  other's  waists, 
their  chins  dug  hard  into  each  other's  shoulders.  And 
they  rocked  there,  and  swayed,  and  lurched,  a  curious 
impotence  in  their  ferocity — and  toppled  to  the  floor. 

John  Bruce's  grip  tightened  as  Doctor  Crang  fought 
madly  now  to  tear  himself  free — and  they  rolled  over 
and  over  in  the  direction  of  the  door.  Hot  and  cold 
waves  swept  over  John  Bruce.  He  was  weak,  piti- 


THE  FIGHT  153 

fully  weak,  barely  a  convalescent.  But  he  was  content 
to  call  it  an  equal  fight.  He  asked  for  no  other  odds 
than  Crang  himself  had  offered.  The  man  for  oiice 
had  over-steeped  himself  with  dope,  and  was  near  the 
point  of  collapse.  He  had  read  that  in  the  other's 
eyes,  as  surely  as  though  he  had  been  told.  And  so 
John  Bruce,  between  his  gasping  breaths,  still  laughed, 
and  rolled  over  and  over — always  toward  the  door. 

From  somewhere  Claire's  voice  reached  John  Bruce, 
imploringly,  in  terror.  Of  course !  That  was  why  he 
was  trying  to  get  to  the  door,  to  get  out  of  her  room — 
through  respect  for  her — to  get  somewhere  where  he 
could  finish  this  fight  between  one  man  who  could 
scarcely  stand  upon  his  feet  through  weakness,  and 
another  whose  drug-shattered  body  was  approaching 
that  state  of  coma  which  he,  John  Bruce,  had  been 
made  to  suffer  on  the  night  the  robbery  had  been  com- 
mitted. And  by  the  same  needle!  He  remembered 
that  I  Weak  in  body,  his  mind  was  very  clear.  And 
so  he  rolled  over  and  over,  always  toward  the  door, 
because  Crang  was  heedless  of  the  direction  they  were 
taking,  and  he,  John  Bruce,  was  probably  not  strong 
enough  in  any  other  way  to  force  the  other  out  of  the 
room  where  they  could  finish  this. 

They  rolled  to  the  threshold — and  out  into  the  hall. 
John  Bruce  loosened  his  hold  suddenly,  staggered  to 
his  feet,  and  leaned  heavily  for  an  instant  against  the 
jamb  of  the  door.  But  it  was  only  for  an  instant. 
Crang  was  the  quicker  upon  his  feet.  Like  a  beast 
there  was  slaver  on  the  other's  lips,  his  hands  clawed 
the  air,  his  face  was  contorted  hideously  like  the  face 
of  one  demented,  one  from  whom  reason  had  flown, 
and  with  whom  maniacal  passion  alone  remained — and 


i54  PAWNED 

from  the  banister  railing  opposite  the  door  Crang 
launched  himself  forward  upon  John  Bruce  again. 

"She's  mine!"  he  screamed.  "I've  been  watching 
you  two!  I'll  teach  you!  She's  mine — mine!  I'll 
finish  you  for  this!" 

John  Bruce  side-stepped  the  rush,  and  Crang  pitched 
with  his  head  against  the  door  jamb,  but  recovering, 
whirled  again,  and  rushed  again.  The  man  began  to 
curse  steadily  now  in  a  low,  abominable  monotone.  It 
seemed  to  John  Bruce  that  he  ought  to  use  his  fist  as 
a  cork  and  thrust  it  into  the  other's  mouth  to  bottle  up 
the  vile  flow  of  epithets  that  included  Claire,  and 
coupled  his  name  with  Claire's.  Claire  might  hear! 
The  man  was  raving,  insane  with  jealousy.  John 
Bruce  struck.  His  fist  found  its  mark  on  Crang's  lips, 
and  found  it  again;  but  somehow  his  arm  seemed  to 
possess  but  little  strength,  and  to  sag  back  at  the  elbow 
from  each  impact.  He  writhed  suddenly  as  Crang 
reached  him  with  another  blow  on  his  side. 

And  then  they  had  grappled  and  locked  together 
again,  and  were  swaying  like  drunken  men,  now  to  this 
side,  and  now  to  that,  of  the  narrow  hall. 

It  could  not  last.  John  Bruce  felt  his  knees  giving 
way  beneath  him.  He  had  under-estimated  Crang's 
resistance  to  the  over-dose  of  drug.  Crang  was  the 
stronger — and  seemed  to  be  growing  stronger  every 
instant.  Or  was  it  his  own  increasing  weakness? 

Crang's  fist  with  a  short-arm  jab  smashed  at  John 
Bruce's  wounded  side  once  more.  The  man  struck 
nowhere  else — always,  with  the  cunning  born  of  hell, 
at  the  wounded  side.  John  Bruce  dug  his  teeth  into 
his  lips.  A  wave  of  nausea  swept  over  him.  He  felt 
his  senses  leaving  him,  and  he  clung  now  to  the  other, 


THE  FIGHT  155 

close,  tight-pressed,  as  the  only  means  of  protecting 
his  side. 

He  forced  himself  then  desperately  to  a  last  effort. 
There  was  one  chance  left,  just  one.  In  the  livid  face, 
in  the  hot,  panting  breath  with  which  the  other 
mouthed  his  hideous  profanity,  there  was  murder. 
Over  his  shoulder,  barely  a  foot  away,  John  Bruce 
glimpsed  the  staircase.  He  let  his  weight  sag  with 
seeming  helplessness  upon  Crang.  It  brought  Crang 
around  in  a  half  circle.  Crang's  back  was  to  the  stairs 
now.  John  Bruce  let  his  hands  slip  slowly  from  their 
hold  upon  the  other,  as  though  the  last  of  his  strength 
was  ebbing  away.  He  accepted  a  vicious  blow  on  his 
wounded  side  as  the  price  that  he  must  pay,  a  blow 
that  brought  his  chin  crumpling  down  upon  his  breast 
— and  then  with  every  ounce  of  remaining  strength  he 
hurled  himself  at  Crang,  and  Crang's  foot  stumbled 
out  into  space  over  the  topmost  stair,  and  with  a  scream 
of  infuriated  surprise  the  man  pitched  backward. 

John  Bruce  grasped  with  both  hands  at  the  banister 
for  support.  Something  went  rolling,  rolling,  rolling 
down  the  stairs  with  queer,  dull  thumps  like  a  sack  of 
meal.  His  hands  slipped  from  the  banister,  and  he  sat 
limply  down  on  the  topmost  step  and  laughed.  He 
laughed  because  that  curious  looking  bundle  at  the 
bottom  there  began  a  series  of  fruitless  efforts  to  roll 
back  up  the  stairs  again. 

And  then  the  front  door  opened.  He  could  see  it 
from  where  he  sat,  and  Paul  Veniza — that  was  Paul 
Veniza,  wasn't  it? — stepped  into  the  room  below,  and 
cried  out,  and  ran  toward  the  bundle  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs. 

John  Bruce  felt  some  one  suddenly  hold  him  back 


i56  PAWNED 

from  pitching  down  the  stairs  himself,  but  neverthe- 
less he  kept  on  falling  and  falling  into  some  great  pit 
that  grew  darker  and  darker  the  farther  he  went  down, 
and  this  in  spite  of  some  one  who  tried  to  hold  him 
back,  and — and  who  had  a  face  that  looked  like 
Claire's,  only  it  was  as — as  white  as  driven  snow.  And 
as  he  descended  into  the  blackness  some  one  screamed 
at  him:  "I'll  finish  you  for  this!"  And  screamed  it 
again — only  the  voice  kept  growing  fainter.  And — = 

and  then  he  could  neither  see  nor  hear  any  more. 
******* 

When  John  Bruce  opened  his  eyes  again  he  was  lying 
on  his  cot.  A  little  way  from  him,  their  backs  turned, 
Claire  and  Paul  Veniza  were  whispering  earnestly 
together.  He  watched  them  for  a  moment,  and  gradu- 
ally as  his  senses  became  normally  acute  again  he 
caught  Claire's  words : 

"He  is  not  safe  here  for  a  moment.  Father,  we 
must  get  him  away.  I  am  afraid.  There  is  not  a 
threat  Doctor  Crang  made  to-night  but  that  he  is  quite 
capable  of  carrying  out." 

"But  he  is  safe  for  to-night,"  Paul  Veniza  answered 
soothingly.  "I  got  Crang  home  to  bed,  and  as  I  told 
you,  he  is  too  badly  bruised  and  knocked  about  to  move 
around  any  before  morning  at  least." 

"And  yet  I  am  afraid,"  Claire  insisted  anxiously. 
"Fortunately  Mr.  Bruce's  wound  hasn't  opened,  and 

he  could  be  moved.  Oh,  if  Hawkins  only  hadn't " 

She  stopped,  and  twisted  her  hands  together  nervously. 

Paul  Veniza  coughed,  averted  his  head  suddenly  and 
in  turning  met  John  Bruce's  eyes — and  stared  in  a 
startled  way. 

"Claire!"  John  Bruce  called  softly. 


THE  FIGHT  157 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  and  ran  toward  him.     "You " 

"Yes,"  smiled  John  Bruce.  "And  I  have  been  lis- 
tening. Why  isn't  it  safe  for  me  to  stay  here  any 
longer?  On  account  of  Crang' s  wild  threats?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

John  Bruce  laughed. 

"But  you  don't  believe  them,  do  you?"  he  asked. 
"At  least,  I  mean,  you  don't  take  them  literally." 

Claire's  lips  were  trembling. 

"There  is  no  other  way  to  take  them."  She  was 
making  an  effort  to  steady  her  voice.  "It  is  not  a  ques- 
tion of  believing  them.  I  know  only  too  well  that  he 
will  carry  them  out  if  he  can.  You  are  not  safe  here, 
or  even  in  New  York  now — but  less  safe  here  in  this 
house  than  anywhere  else." 

John  Bruce  came  up  on  his  elbow. 

"Then,  Claire,  isn't  this  the  end?"  he  demanded 
passionately.  "You  know  him  for  what  he  is.  You 
do  not  love  him,  for  I  distinctly  heard  you  tell  him  that 
you  loathed  him,  as  I  went  up  the  stairs.  Claire,  I  am 
not  asking  for  myself  now — only  for  you.  Tell  me, 
tell  Paul  Veniza  here,  to  whom  it  will  mean  so  much, 
that  you  have  now  no  further  thought  of  marriage  with 
that" — John  Bruce's  voice  choked — "with  Crang." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  that,"  she  said  dully,  "for  I  am 
going  to  marry  Doctor  Crang." 

John  Bruce's  face  hardened.  He  looked  at  Paul 
Veniza.  The  old  pawnbroker  had  his  eyes  on  the  floor, 
and  was  ruffling  his  white  hair  helplessly  with  his 
fingers. 

"Why?"  John  Bruce  asked. 

"Because  I  promised,"  Claire  said  slowly. 


'158  PAWNED 

"But  a  promise  like  that!"  John  Bruce  burst  out. 
"A  promise  that  you  will  regret  all  your  life  is " 

"No!"  Her  face  was  half  averted;  her  head  was 
lowered  to  hide  the  tears  that  suddenly  welled  into 
her  eyes.  "No;  it  is  a  promise  that  I — that  I  am  glad 
now  I  made." 

"Glad!"  John  Bruce  sat  upright.  She  had  turned 
her  head  away  from  the  cot.  He  could  not  see  her 
face.  "Glad!"  he  repeated  incredulously. 

"Yes."    Her  voice  was  scarcely  audible. 

For  a  moment  John  Bruce  stared  at  her;  then  a 
bitter  smile  tightened  his  lips,  and  he  lay  back  on  the 
cot,  and  turned  on  his  side  away  from  both  Claire  and 
Paul  Veniza. 

When  John  Bruce  looked  around  again,  only  Paul 
Veniza  was  in  the  room. 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Paul  Veniza — he  was  still 
ruffling  his  hair,  still  with  his  eyes  on  the  floor. 

"I  do,"  said  John  Bruce  grimly.  "Claire  is  right. 
It  isn't  safe  for  me  to  stay  here,  and  I'll  go  to-night. 

If  only  Hawkins  hadn't "  He  laughed  a  little 

harshly.  "But  I'll  go  to-night,  just  the  same.  A  taxi 
will  do  quite  as  well." 


—  XIII  — 

TRAPPINGS   OF  TINSEL 

UNDER  the  shaded  light  on  his  table,  in  his 
private  sitting  room  in  the  Bayne-Miloy 
Hotel,  John  Bruce  had  been  writing  steadily 
for  half  an  hour — but  the  sheets  of  paper  over  which 
his  pen  had  traveled  freely  and  swiftly  were  virgin 
white.  He  paused  now,  remained  a  moment  in 
thought,  and  then  added  a  line  to  the  last  sheet.  No 
mark  was  left,  but  from  the  movement  of  the  pen  this 
appeared  to  be  a  signature. 

He  gathered  the  sheets  together,  folded  them 
neatly,  and  slipped  them  into  an  envelope.  He 
replaced  the  cap  on  the  fountain  pen  he  had  been  using, 
placed  the  pen  in  his  vest  pocket,  and  from  another 
pocket  took  out  another  pen  that  was  apparently  iden- 
tical with  the  first.  With  this  second  pen,  in  black  ink, 
he  addressed  the  envelope  to  one  Gilbert  Larmon  in 
San  Francisco.  He  sealed  the  envelope,  stamped  it, 
put  it  in  his  pocket,  returned  the  second  fountain  pen 
to  his  vest  pocket,  lighted  a  cigarette,  leaned  back  in 
his  chair,  and  frowned  at  the  ascending  spirals  of 
smoke  from  the  cigarette's  tip. 

The  report  which  he  had  just  written  to  Larmon, 
explaining  his  inaction  during  the  past  weeks,  had 
been  an  effort — not  physical,  but  mental.  He  had 
somehow,  curiously,  felt  no  personal  regret  for  the 

159 


160  PAWNED 

enforced  absence  from  his  "work,"  and  he  now  felt  no 
enthusiasm  at  the  prospect  of  resuming  it.  He  had 
had  no  right  to  tinge  or  color  his  letter  to  Larmon  with 
these  views ;  nor  had  he  intended  to  do  so.  Perhaps  he 
had  not;  perhaps  he  had.  He  did  not  know.  The  ink 
originated  by  the  old  Samoan  Islander  had  its  disad- 
vantages as  well  as  its  advantages.  He  could  not  now 
read  the  letter  over  once  it  was  written! 

He  flicked  the  ash  irritably  from  his  cigarette.  He 
had  been  back  here  in  the  hotel  now  for  two  days  and 
that  feeling  had  been  constantly  growing  upon  him. 
Why?  He  did  not  know  except  that  the  cause  seemed 
to  insist  on  associating  itself  with  his  recent  illness,  his 
life  in  the  one-time  pawn-shop  of  Paul  Veniza.  But, 
logically,  that  did  not  hold  water.  Why  should  it? 
He  had  met  a  pawnbroker  who  roamed  the  streets  at 
night  in  a  fantastic  motor  car,  driven  by  a  drunkard; 
and  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  girl  who  was  glad 
she  was  going  to  marry  a  dope-eating  criminal.  Good 
God,  it  was  a  spectacle  to  make 

John  Bruce's  fist  crashed  suddenly  down  on  the  desk 
beside  him,  and  he  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood  there 
staring  unseeingly  before  him.  That  was  not  fair! 
What  was  uppermost  now  was  the  recrudescence  of  the 
bitterness  that  had  possessed  him  two  nights  ago  when 
he  had  returned  from  Paul  Veniza's  to  the  hotel  here. 
Nor  was  it  any  more  true  than  it  was  fair !  What  of 
the  days  and  nights  of  nursing,  of  care,  of  the  ungrudg- 
ing and  kindly  hospitality  they  had  given  to  an  utter 
stranger?  Yes,  he  knew!  Only — only  she  had  said 
she  was  glad! 

He  began  to  pace  the  room.  He  had  left  Veniza's 
in  bitterness.  He  had  not  seen  Claire.  It  was  a  strange 


TRAPPINGS  OF  TINSEL  161 

sort  of  love  he  boasted,  little  of  unselfishness  in  it, 
much  of  impatience,  and  still  more  of  intolerance  I 
That  it  was  a  hopeless  love  in  so  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned did  not  place  him  before  himself  in  any  better 
light.  If  he  cared  for  her,  if  there  was  any  depth  of 
feeling  in  this  love  he  claimed  to  have,  then  at  least 
her  happiness,  her  welfare  and  her  future  could  not 
be  extraneous  and  indifferent  considerations  to  him. 
And  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  piqued,  in  spite  of  Paul 
Veniza's  protestations,  he  had  left  that  night  without 
seeing  Claire  again! 

He  had  been  ashamed  of  himself.  Yesterday,  he 
had  telephoned  Claire.  He  had  begged  her  forgive- 
ness. He  had  not  meant  to  say  more — but  he  had! 
Something  in  her  voice  had — no,  not  invited ;  he  could 
not  say  that — but  had  brought  the  passion,  pleading 
almost,  back  into  his  own.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that 
she  was  in  tears  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire ;  at  least, 
bravely  as  she  had  evidently  tried  to  do  so,  she  had 
been  unable  to  keep  her  voice  under  control.  But  she 
had  evaded  an  answer.  There  had  been  nothing  to 
forgive,  she  had  said.  He  had  told  her  that  he  must 
see  her,  that  he  would  see  her  again.  And  then  almost 
hysterically,  over  and  over  again,  she  had  begged  him 
to  attempt  nothing  of  the  sort,  but  instead  to  leave 
New  York  because  she  insisted  that  it  was  not  safe 
for  him  to  stay  even  in  the  city. 

John  Bruce  hurled  the  butt  of  his  cigarette  in  the 
direction  of  the  cuspidor,  and  clenched  his  fist.  Crang! 
Safe  from  Crang!  He  laughed  aloud  harshly.  He 
asked  nothing 'better  than  to  meet  Crang  again.  He 
would  not  be  so  weak  the  next  time !  And  the  sooner 
the  better  1 


1 62  PAWNED 

He  gnawed  at  his  under  lip,  as  he  continued  to-  pace 
the  room.  To-day,  he  had  telephoned  Claire  again — 
but  he  had  not  spoken  to  her  this  time.  He  had  not 
been  surprised  at  the  news  he  had  received,  for  he 
remembered  that  Hawkins  had  once  told  him  that  the 
old  pawnbroker  was  in  reality  far  from  well.  Some 
one,  he  did  not  know  who,  some  neighbor  probably, 
had  answered  the  phone.  Paul  Veniza  had  been  taken 
ill.  Claire  had  been  up  with  him  all  the  previous  night, 
and  was  then  resting. 

John  Bruce  paused  abruptly  before  the  desk  at  which 
he  had  been  writing,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was 
a  little  after  ten  o'clock.  He  was  going  back  to  "work" 
again  to-night.  He  smiled  suddenly,  and  a  little  quizzi- 
cally, as  he  caught  sight  of  himself  in  a  mirror.  What 
would  they  say — the  white-haired  negro  butler,  and 
the  exquisite  Monsieur  Henri  de  Lavergne,  for  in- 
stance— when  the  millionaire  plunger,  usually  so 
immaculate  in  evening  clothes,  presented  himself  at 
their  door  in  a  suit  of  business  tweeds? 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Down  at  Ratti's  that 
night  his  apparel — it  was  a  matter  of  viewpoint — had 
been  a  source  of  eminent  displeasure,  and  as  such  had 
been  very  effectively  disposed  of.  He  had  had  no 
opportunity  to  be  measured  for  new  clothes. 

The  smile  faded,  and  he  stood  staring  at  the  desk. 
The  millionaire  plunger  I  It  seemed  to  jar  somehow 
on  his  sensibilities.  Work!  That  was  a  queer  way, 
too,  to  designate  it.  He  was  going  to  take  up  his  work 
again  to-night,  pick  up  the  threads  of  his  life  again 
where  he  had  dropped  them.  A  bit  ragged  those 
threads,  weren't  they?  Frayed,  as  it  were! 

What  the  devil  was  the  matter  with  him,  anyway? 


TRAPPINGS  OF  TINSEL  163 

There  was  money  in  it,  a  princely  existence.  What 
more  could  any  one  ask?  What  did  Claire,  his  love 
for  a  girl  who  was  glad  to  marry  same  one  else  infi- 
nitely worse  than  he  was,  have  to  do  with  it?  Ah,  s-he 
did  have  something  to  do  with  it,  then!  Nonsense! 
It  was  absurd! 

He  took  a  key  abruptly  from  his  pocket,  and 
unlocked  one  of  the  drawers  of  the  desk.  From  the 
drawer  he  took  out  a  large  roll  of  bills.  The  hotel 
management  had  sent  to  the  bank  and  cashed  a  check 
for  him  that  afternoon.  He  had  not  forgotten  that 
he  would  need  money,  and  plenty  of  it,  at  the  tables 
this  evening.  Well,  he  was  quite  ready  to  go  now,  and 
it  was  time;  it  would  be  halfpast  ten  before  he  got 
there,  and 

"The  devil!"  said  John  Bruce  savagely — and  sud- 
denly tossed  the  money  back  into  the  drawer,  and 
locked  the  drawer.  "If  I  don't  feel  like  it  to-night, 
why  should  I?  I  guess  I'll  just  drop  around  for  a  little 
convalescent  visit,  and  let  it  go  at  that." 

John  Bruce  put  on  a  light  overcoat,  and  left  the 
room.  In  the  lobby  downstairs  he  posted  his  letter  to 
Gilbert  Larmon.  He  stepped  out  on  the  street,  and 
from  the  rank  in  front  of  the  hotel  secured  a  taxi. 
Twenty  minutes  later  he  entered  Gilbert  Larmon's 
New  York  gambling  hell. 

Here  he  received  a  sort  of  rhapsodical  welcome 
from  the  exquisite  Monsieur  Henri  de  Lavergne,  which 
embraced  poignant  regret  at  the  accident  that  had 
befallen  him,  and  unspeakable  joy  at  his  so-splendid 
recovery.  It  was  a  delight  so  great  to  shake  the  hand 
of  Mr.  Bruce  again  that  Monsieur  Henri  de  Lavergne 
complained  bitterly  at  the  poverty  of  language  which 


1 64  PAWNED 

prevented  an  adequate  expression  of  his  true  and  sin- 
cere feelings.  Also,  Monsieur  Henri  de  Lavergne,  if 
he  were  not  trespassing,  would  be  flattered  indeed  with 
Mr.  Bruce's  confidence,  if  Mr.  Bruce  should  see  fit  to 
honor  him  with  an  account  of  how  the  accident  had 
happened.  He  would  be  desolated  if  in  any  way  it 
could  be  attributable  to  any  suggestion  that  he,  Mon- 
sieur de  Lavergne,  on  behalf  of  the  house  which  he  had 
the  honor  to  represent  as  manager,  had  made  to  Mr. 

Bruce  which  might  have  induced 

"Not  at  all!"  John  Bruce  assured  him  heartily.  He 
smiled  at  Monsieur  de  Lavergne.  The  other  knew 
nothing  of  Claire's  presence  in  the  car  that  night,  and 
for  Claire's  sake  it  was  necessary  to  set  the  man's  mind 
so  completely  at  rest  that  the  subject  would  lack  fur- 
ther interest.  The  only  way  to  accomplish  that  was 
to  appear  whole-heartedly  frank.  John  Bruce  became 
egregiously  frank.  "It  was  just  my  own  damned  curi- 
osity," he  said  with  a  wry  smile.  "I  got  out  of  that 
ingenious  contraption  at  the  corner  after  going  around 
the  block,  and,  well,  my  curiosity,  as  I  said,  got  the 
better  of  me.  I  followed  the  thing,  and  found  out 
where  Mr.  Veniza  lived.  I  started  on  my  way  back, 
but  I  didn't  get  very  far.  I  got  into  trouble  with  a 
rather  tough  crowd  just  around  the  corner,  who  didn't 
like  my  shirt  front,  I  believe  they  said.  The  fight 
ended  by  my  being  backed  into  a  wine  shop  where  I 
was  stabbed,  but  from  which  I  managed  to  escape  into 
the  lane.  I  was  about  all  in,  and  the  only  chance  I 
could  see  was  a  lighted  window  on  the  other  side  of  a 
low  fence.  I  crawled  in  the  window,  and  flopped  on 
the  floor.  It  proved  to  be  Mr.  Veniza's  house." 


TRAPPINGS  OF  TINSEL  165 

"Pour  I' amour  du  dieu!"  exclaimed  Monsieur  Henri 
de  Lavergne  breathlessly. 

"And  which  also  accounts,"  said  John  Bruce  pleas- 
antly, "for  the  apology  I  must  offer  you  for  my  appear- 
ance this  evening  in  these  clothes.  The  mob  in  that 
respect  was  quite  successful." 

"But  that  you  are  back!"  Monsieur  de  Lavergne's 
hands  were  raised  in  protest.  "That  is  alone  what 
matters.  Monsieur  Bruce  knows  tljat  in  any  attire  it 
is  the  same  here  for  monsieur  as  though  he  were  at 
home." 

"Thank  you!"  said  John  Bruce  cordially.  "I  have 
only  dropped  in  through  the  urge  of  old  habits,  I  guess. 
I'm  hardly  on  my  feet  yet,  and  I  thought  I'd  just  watch 
the  play  for  a  little  while  to-night." 

"And  that,  too,"  said  Monsieur  Henri  de  Lavergne 
with  a  bow,  as  John  Bruce  moved  toward  the  staircase, 
"is  entirely  as  monsieur  desires." 

John  Bruce  mounted  the  stairs,  and  began  a  stroll 
through  the  roulette  and  card  rooms.  The  croupiers 
and  dealers  nodded  to  him  genially;  those  of  the 
"guests"  whom  he  knew  did  likewise.  He  was  treated 
with  marked  courtesy  and  consideration  by  every 
attendant  in  the  establishment.  Everything  was  ex- 
actly as  it  had  been  on  his  previous  visits.  There  were 
the  soft  mellow  lights;  the  siren  pur  of  the  roulette 
wheel,  the  musical  click  of  the  ball  as  it  spun  around 
on  its  little  fateful  orbit;  the  low,  quiet  voices  of  the 
croupiers  and  dealers;  the  well-dressed  players  grouped 
around  the  tables,  the  hilarious  and  the  grim,  the  devil- 
may-care  laugh  from  one,  the  thin  smile  from  another. 
It  was  exactly  the  same,  all  exactly  the  same,  even  to 
the  table  in  the  supper  room,  free  to  all  though  laden 


1 66  PAWNED 

with  every  wine  and  delicacy  that  money  could  procure ; 
but  somehow,  even  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour,  where 
he  was  wont  to  be  engrossed  till  daylight,  John  Bruce 
became  excessively  bored. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  he  was  simply  an  on-looker, 
and  not  playing  himself.  He  had  drawn  close  to  a 
group  around  a  faro  bank.  The  play  was  grim  earnest 
and  for  high  stakes.  No,  it  wasn't  that!  He  did  not 
want  to  play.  Somehow,  rather,  he  knew  a  slight  sense 
both  of  contempt  and  disgust  at  the  eager  clutch  and 
grasp  of  hands,  the  hoarse,  short  laugh  of  victory,  the 
snarl  of  defeat,  the  trembling  fingers  of  the  more 
timorous  who  staked  with  Chance  and  demanded  that 
the  god  be  charitable  in  its  omnipotence  and  toss  them 
crumbs! 

Well,  what  was  he  caviling  about?  It  was  the  life 
he  had  chosen.  It  was  his  life  work.  Wasn't  he 
pleased  with  it?  He  had  certainly  liked  it  well  enough 
in  the  old  days  to  squander  upon  it  the  fair-sized  for- 
tune his  father  had  left  him.  He  decidedly  had  not 
gone  into  that  infernal  compact  with  Larmon  blind- 
folded. Perhaps  it  was  because  in  those  days  he  played 
when  he  wanted  to;  and  in  these,  and  hereafter,  he 
would  play  because  he  had  to.  Pefhaps  it  was  only 
that,  to-night,  there  was  upon  him  the  feeling,  which 
was  natural  enough,  and  which  was  immeasurably 
human  too,  that  it  was  irksome  to  be  a  slave,  to  be 
fettered  and  shackled  and  bound  to  anything,  even  to 
what  one,  with  one's  freedom  his  own,  was  ordinarily 
out  of  choice  most  prone  to  do  and  delight  in.  Well, 
maybe!  But  that  was  not  entirely  a  satisfactory  or 
conclusive  solution  either. 

He  looked  around  him.    There  seemed  to  be  some- 


TRAPPINGS  OF  TINSEL  167 

thing  hollow  to-night  in  these  trappings  of  tinsel;  and 
something  not  only  hollow,  but  sardonic  in  his  connec- 
tion with  them — that  he  should  act  as  a  monitor  over 
the  honesty  of  those  who  in  turn  acted  as  the  agents  of 
Larmon  in  an  already  illicit  traffic. 

"Oh,  hell!"  said  John  Bruce  suddenly. 

The  dealer  looked  up  from  the  table,  surprise 
mingling  with  polite  disapproval.  Several  of  the  play- 
ers screwed  around  their  heads. 

"That's  what  I  say!"  snarled  one  of  the  latter  with 
an  added  oath,  as  a  large  stack  of  chips  was  swept 
away  from  him. 

Some  one  touched  John  Bruce  on  the  elbow.  He 
turned  around.  It  was  one  of  the  attendants. 

"You  are  being  asked  for  downstairs,  Mr.  Bruce," 
the  man  informed  him. 

John  Bruce  followed  the  attendant.  In  the  hall 
below  the  white-haired  negro  doorkeeper  came  toward 
him. 

"I  done  let  him  in,  Mistuh  Bruce,  suh,"  the  old 
darky  explained  a  little  anxiously,  "  'cause  he  done  say, 
Mistuh  Bruce,  that  it  was  a  case  of  most  particular 
illness,  suh,  and " 

John  Bruce  did  not  wait  for  more.  It  was  Veniza 
probably — a  turn  for  the  worse.  He  nodded,  and 
passed  hurriedly  along  the  hall  to  where,  near  the  door, 
a  poorly  dressed  man,  hat  in  hand  and  apparently 
somewhat  ill  at  ease  in  his  luxurious  surroundings, 
stood  waiting. 

"I  am  Mr.  Bruce,"  he  said  quickly.  "Some  one  is 
critically  ill,  you  say?  Is  it  Mr.  Veniza?" 

"No,  sir,"  the  man  answered.  "I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  Mr.  Veniza.  It's  Hawkins." 


!68  PAWNED 

"Hawkins!"  ejaculated  John  Bruce. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man.  He  shuffled  his  feet. 
"I — I  guess  you  know,  sir." 

John  Bruce  for  a  moment  made  no  comment.  Haw- 
kins! Yes,  he  knew!  Hawkins  had  even  renounced 
his  pledge,  hadn't  he?  Not,  perhaps,  that  that  would 
have  made  any  difference! 

"Bad?"  he  asked  tersely. 

"I'm  afraid  so,  sir,"  the  man  replied.  "I've  seen  a 
good  bit  of  Hawkins  off  and  on  in  the  last  two  years, 
sir,  because  I  room  in  the  same  house;  but  I've  never 
seen  him  like  this.  He's  been  out  of  his  head  and 
clawing  the  air,  sir,  if  you  know  what  I  mean.  He's 
over  that  now,  but  that  weak  he  had  me  scared  once, 
sir,  that  he'd  gone." 

"What  does  the  doctor  say?"  John  Bruce  bit  off 
his  words. 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"He  wouldn't  have  one,  sir.  It's  you  he  wants. 
You'll  understand,  sir,  that  he's  been  alone.  I  don't 
know  how  long  ago  he  started  on  this  spree.  It  was 
only  by  luck  that  I  walked  into  his  room  to-night.  I 
was  for  getting  a  doctor  at  once,  of  course,  but  he 
wouldn't  have  it;  he  wanted  you.  At  times,  sir,  he 
was  crying  like  a  baby,  only  he  hadn't  the  strength  of 
one  left.  Knowing  I  could  run  her,  me  being  a  motor- 
truck driver,  he  told  me  to  take  that  car  he  drives  and 
go  to  the  hotel  for  you,  and  if  you  weren't  there  to  try 
here — which  I've  done,  sir,  as  you  see,  and  I  hope 
you'll  come  back  with  me.  I  don't  know  what  to  do, 
though  I'm  for  picking  up  a  doctor  on  the  way  back 
whether  he  wants  one  or  not." 

John  Bruce  turned  abruptly,  secured  his  coat  and 


TRAPPINGS  OF  TINSEL  169 

hat,  motioned  the  man  to  lead  the  way,  and  followed 
the  other  out  of  the  house  and  down  the  steps  to  the 
sidewalk. 

The  traveling  pawn-shop  was  at  the  curb.  The  man 
opened  the  door,  and  John  Bruce  stepped  inside — and 
was  instantly  flung  violently  down  upon  a  seat.  The 
door  closed.  The  car  started  forward.  And  in  a  sud- 
den glare  of  light  John  Bruce  stared  into  the  muzzle 
of  a  revolver,  and,  behind  the  revolver,  into  a  bruised 
and  battered  face,  which  was  the  face  of  Doctor 
Crang. 


—  XIV  — 

THE  TWO   PENS 

JOHN  BRUCE  stared  for  a  moment  longer  at  the 
revolver  that  held  a  steady  bead  between  his  eyes, 
and  at  the  evil  face  of  Crang  that  leered  at  him 
from  the  opposite  seat;  then  he  deliberately  turned  his 
head  and  stared  at  the  face  of  still  another  occupant  of 
the  car — a  man  who  sat  on  the  seat  beside  him.  He 
was  trapped — and  well  trapped!  He  recognized  the 
other  to  be  the  man  known  as  Birdie,  who  had  partici- 
pated on  a  certain  night  in  the  robbery  of  Paul  Veniza's 
safe.  It  was  quite  plain.  The  third  man  in  that  rob- 
bery, whose  face  he  had  not  seen  at  the  time,  was 
undoubtedly  the  man  who  had  brought  the  "message" 
a  few  minutes  ago,  and  who  was  now,  with  almost 
equal  certainty,  engaged  in  driving  the  car.  Thieving, 
at  least,  was  in  the  trio's  line!  They  must  somehow 
or  other  have  stolen  the  traveling  pawn-shop  from 
Hawkins ! 

He  smiled  grimly.  If  it  had  been  Birdie  now  who 
had  brought  the  message  he  would  never  have  fallen 
into  the  trap !  Crang  had  played  in  luck  and  won  by 
a  very  narrow  margin,  for  Crang  was  naturally  in 
ignorance  that  he,  John  Bruce,  had  ever  seen  either  of 
the  men  before.  And  then  John  Bruce  thought  of  the 
bulky  roll  of  bills  which  by  an  equally  narrow  margin 
was  not  in  his  pocket  at  that  moment,  and  his  smile 
deepened. 

170 


THE  TWO  PENS  171 

Crang  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"Take  his  gun  away  from  him,  if  he's  got  one!"  he 
snarled  tersely. 

"It's  in  the  breast  pocket  of  my  coat,"  said  John 
Bruce  imperturbably. 

Birdie,  beside  John  Bruce,  reached  over  and  secured 
the  weapon. 

John  Bruce  leaned  back  in  his  seat.  The  car  was 
speeding  rapidly  along  now. 

The  minutes  passed.  None  of  the  three  men  spoke. 
Crang  sat  like  some  repulsive  gargoyle,  leering 
maliciously. 

John  Bruce  half  closed  his  eyes  against  the  uncanny 
fascination  of  that  round  black  muzzle  which  never 
wavered  in  its  direction,  and  which  was  causing  him 
to  strain  too  intently  upon  it.  What  was  the  game? 
How  far  did  Crang  intend  to  go  with  his  insane 
jealousy?  How  far  would  Crang  dare  to  go?  The 
man  wasn't  doped  to-night.  Perhaps  he  was  even  the 
more  dangerous  on  that  account.  Instead  of  mouthing 
threats,  there  was  something  ominous  now,  it  seemed, 
in  the  man's  silence.  John  Bruce's  lips  drew  together. 
He  remembered  Claire's  insistence  that  Crang  had 
meant  what  he  said  literally — and  Claire  had  repeated 
that  warning  over  the  telephone.  Well,  if  she  were 
right,  it  meant — murder. 

From  under  his  half  closed  lids,  John  Bruce  looked 
around  the  car.  The  curtains,  as  they  always  were, 
were  closely  drawn.  The  interior  was  lighted  by  that 
same  soft  central  light,  only  the  light  was  high  up  now 
near  the  roof  of  the  car.  Well,  if  it  was  to  be  murder, 
why  not  now?  The  little  velvet-topped  table  was  not 
in  place,  and  there  was  nothing  between  himself  and 


i?2  PAWNED 

that  sneering,  sallow  face.  Yes,  why  not  now — and 
settle  it! 

He  straightened  almost  imperceptibly  in  his  seat,  as 
impulse  suddenly  bade  him  fling  himself  forward  upon 
Crang.  Why  not?  The  sound  of  a  revolver  shot  would 
be  heard  in  the  street,  and  Crang  might  not  even  dare 
to  fire  at  all.  And  then  John  Bruce's  glance  rested  on 
the  man  beside  him — and  impulse  gave  way  to  common 
sense.  He  had  no  intention  of  submitting  tamely  and 
without  a  struggle  to  any  fate,  no  matter  what  it  might 
be,  that  Crang  proposed  for  him,  but  that  struggle 
would  better  come  when  there  was  at  least  a  chance. 
There  was  no  chance  here.  Birdie,  on  the  seat  beside 
him,  held  a  deadlier  and  even  more  effective  weapon 
than  was  Crang's  revolver,  a  silent  thing — a  black-jack. 

"Wait  I  Don't  play  the  fool !  You'll  get  a  better 
chance  than  this !"  the  voice  of  what  he  took  to  be  com- 
mon sense  whispered  to  him. 

The  car  began  to  go  slower.  It  swerved  twice  as 
though  making  sharp  turns;  and  then,  running  still 
more  slowly,  began  to  bump  over  rough  ground. 

Crang  spoke  again. 

"You  can  make  all  the  noise  you  want  to,  if  you 
think  it  will  do  you  any  good,"  he  said  viciously;  "but 
if  you  make  a  move  you  are  not  told  to  make  you'll  be 
carried  the  rest  of  the  way!  Understand?" 

John  Bruce  .did  not  answer. 

The  car  stopped.  Birdie  opened  the  door  on  his 
side,  and  stepped  to  the  ground.  He  was  joined  by 
the  man  who  had  driven  the  car,  and  who,  as  John 
Bruce  now  found  he  had  correctly  assumed,  had  acted 
as  the  decoy  at  the  gambling  house. 

"Get  out !"  ordered  Doctor  Crang  curtly. 


THE  TWO  PENS  173 

John  Bruce  followed  Birdie  from  the  car.  It  was 
dark  out  here,  exceedingly  dark,  but  he  could  make 
out  that  the  car  had  been  driven  into  a  narrow  lane, 
and  that  they  were  close  to  the  wall  of  a  building  of 
some  sort.  The  two  men  gripped  him  by  his  arms. 
He  felt  the  muzzle  of  Crang's  revolver  pressed  into 
the  small  of  his  back. 

"Mind  your  step  !"  cautioned  Birdie  gruffly. 

It  was  evidently  the  entrance  to  a  cellar.  John  Bruce 
found  himself  descending  a  few  short  steps;  and  then, 
on  the  level  again,  he  was  guided  forward  through 
what  was  now  pitch  blackness.  A  moment  more  and 
they  had  halted,  but  not  before  John  Bruce's  foot  had 
come  into  contact  with  a  wall  or  partition  of  some 
kind  in  front  of  him.  One  of  the  men  who  gripped  his 
arms  knocked  twice  with  three  short  raps  in  quick  suc- 
cession. 

A  door  opened  in  front  of  them,  and  for  an  instant 
John  Bruce  was  blinded  by  a  sudden  glare  of  light;  but 
the  next  instant,  his  eyes  grown  accustomed  to  the 
transition,  he  saw  before  him  a  large  basement  room, 
disreputable  and  filthy  in  appearance,  where  half  a 
dozen  men  sat  at  tables  drinking  and  playing  cards. 

A  shove  from  the  muzzle  of  Crang's  revolver  urged 
John  Bruce  forward  into  an  atmosphere  that  was  foul, 
hot  and  fetid,  and  thick  with  tobacco  smoke  that 
floated  in  heavy,  sinuous  layers  in  mid-air.  He  was 
led  down  the  length  of  the  room  toward  another  door 
at  the  opposite  end.  The  men  at  the  tables,  as  he 
passed  them,  paid  him  little  attention  other  than  to 
leer  curiously  at  him.  They  greeted  Birdie  and  his 
companion  with  blasphemous  familiarity;  but  their 


i74  PAWNED 

attitude  toward  Crang,  it  seemed  to  John  Bruce,  was 
one  of  cowed  and  abject  respect. 

John  Bruce's  teeth  closed  hard  together.  This  was 
a  nice  place,  an  ominously  nice  place — a  hidden  den  of 
the  rats  of  the  underworld,  where  Crang  was  obviously 
the  leader.  He  was  not  so  sure  now  that  the  prompt- 
ings of  so-called  common  sense  had  been  common  sense 
at  all!  His  chances  of  escaping,  practically  hopeless 
as  they  had  been  in  the  car,  would  certainly  have  been 
worth  trying  in  view  of  this !  He  began  to  regret  his 
"common  sense"  bitterly  now. 

He  was  in  front  of  the  door  toward  which  they  had 
been  heading  now.  It  was  opened  by  Birdie,  and  John 
Bruce  was  pushed  into  a  small,  dimly-lighted,  cave-like 
place.  Crang  said  something  in  a  low  voice  to  the 
two  men,  and,  leaving  them  outside,  entered  himself, 
closing  the  door  only  partially  behind  him. 

For  a  moment  they  faced  each  other,  and  then  Crang 
laughed — tauntingly,  in  menace. 

John  Bruce's  eyes,  from  Crang's  sallow  face,  and 
from  Crang's  revolver,  swept  coolly  over  his  surround- 
ings. A  mattress,  a  foul  thing,  lay  on  the  ground  in 
one  corner.  There  was  no  flooring  here  in  the  cellar. 
A  small  incandescent  bulb  hung  from  the  roof.  There 
was  one  chair  and  a  battered  table — nothing  else;  not 
even  a  window. 

"It  was  like  stealing  from  a  child!"  sneered  Crang 
suddenly.  "You  poor  mark!" 

"Quite  so!"  said  John  Bruce  calmly.  "And  the 
more  so  since  I  was  warned  that  you  were  quite  capable 
of — murder.  I  suppose  that  is  what  I  am  here  for." 

"Oh,  you  were  warned,  were  you?"  Crang  took  an 
abrupt  step  forward,  his  lips  -working.  An  angry 


THE  TWO  PENS  175 

purple  clouded  the  pallor  of  his  face.  "More  of  that 
love  stuff,  eh?  Well,  by  God,  here's  the  end  of  it! 
I'll  teach  you  with  your  damned  sanctimonious  airs  to 
fool  around  the  girl  I'm  going  to  marry!  You  snivell- 
ing hypocrite,  you  didn't  tell  her  who  you  were,  did 
you?" 

John  Bruce  stared  blankly. 

"Who  I  am?"  he  repeated.    "What  do  you  mean?" 

Crang  for  the  moment  was  silent.  He  seemed  to 
be  waging  a  battle  with  himself  to  control  his  passion. 

"I'm  too  clever  a  man  to  lose  my  temper,  now  I've 
got  you!"  he  rasped  finally.  "That's  about  the  size 
of  your  mentality!  The  sweet,  na'ive,  innocent  role! 
Yes,  I  said  a  snivelling  hypocrite!  You  don't  eat 
dope,  but  perhaps  you've  heard  of  a  man  named 
Larmon — Mr,  Gilbert  Larmon,  of  San  Francisco!" 

To  John  Bruce  it  seemed  as  though  Crang's  words 
in  their  effect  were  something  like  one  of  those  blows 
the  same  man  had  dealt  him  on  his  wounded  side  in 
that  fight  of  the  other  night.  They  seemed  to  jar 
him,  and  rob  his  mind  of  quick  thinking  and  virility — 
and  yet  he  was  quite  sure  that  not  a  muscle  of  his  face 
had  moved. 

"You  needn't  answer,"  Crang  grinned  mockingly. 
"If  you  haven't  met  him,  you'll  have  the  opportunity 
of  doing  so  in  a  few  hours.  Mr.  Larmon  will  arrive 
in  New  York  to-night  in  response  to  the  telegram  you 
sent  him." 

"I  know  you  said  you  were  clever,"  said  John  Bruce 
shortly,  "and  I  have  no  doubt  this  is  the  proof  of  it! 
But  what  is  the  idea?  I  did  not  send  a  telegram  to 
any  one. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  did!"  Crang  was  chuckling  evilly. 


i76  PAWNED 

"It  was  something  to  the  effect  that  Mr.  Larmon's 
immediate  presence  in  New  York  was  imperative ;  that 
you  were  in  serious  difficulties.  And  in  order  that 
Mr.  Larmon  might  have  no  suspicions  or  anxiety 
aroused  as  to  his  own  personal  safety,  he  was  to  go 
on  his  arrival  to  the  Bayne-Miloy  Hotel;  but  was,  at 
the  same  time,  to  register  under  the  name  of  R.  L. 
Peters,  and  to  make  no  effort  to  communicate  with  you 
until  you  gave  him  the  cue.  The  answer  to  the  tele- 
gram was  to  be  sent  to  a — er — quite  different  ad- 
dress. And  here's  the  answer." 

His  revolver  levelled,  Crang  laid  a  telegram  on  the 
table,  and  then  backed  away  a  few  steps. 

John  Bruce  picked  up  the  message.  It  was  dated 
from  San  Francisco  several  days  before,  and  was  au- 
thentic beyond  question.  It  was  addressed  to  John 
Bruce  in  the  care  of  one  William  Anderson,  at  an 
address  which  he  took  to  be  somewhere  over  on  the 
East  Side.  He  read  it  quickly: 

Leaving  at  once  and  will  follow  instructions.  Arrive  Wed- 
nesday night.  Am  exceedingly  anxious. 

GILBERT  LARMON. 

"This  is  Wednesday  night,"  sneered  Crang. 

John  Bruce  laid  down  the  telegram.  That  Crang 
in  some  way  had  discovered  his,  John  Bruce's  connec- 
tion with  Larmon,  was  obvious.  But  how — and  what 
did  it  mean?  He  smiled  coldly.  There  was  no  use 
in  playing  the  fool  by  denying  any  knowledge  of 
Larmon.  It  was  simply  a  question  of  exactly  how 
much  Crang  knew. 

"Well?"  he  inquired  indifferently. 

The  door  was  pushed  open,  and  Birdie  came  in.    He 


THE  TWO  PENS  177 

carried  pen  and  ink,  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  and  an 
envelope. 

Crang  motioned  toward  the  table. 

"Put  them  down  there — and  get  out!"  he  ordered 
curtly;  and  then  as  the  man  obeyed,  he  stared  for  an 
instant  in  malicious  silence  at  John  Bruce.  "I  guess 
we're  wasting  time!"  he  snapped.  "I  sent  the  tele- 
gram to  Larmon  a  few  days  ago,  and  I  know  all  about 
you  and  Larmon,  and  his  ring  of  gambling  houses. 
You  talked  your  fool  head  off  when  you  were  delirious 
— understand?  And " 

John  Bruce,  his  face  suddenly  white,  took  a  step 
forward — and  stopped,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
Crang' s  outflung  revolver  was  on  a  level  with  his  eyes. 
And  then  John  Bruce  turned  his  back  deliberately,  and 
walked  to  the  far  end  of  the  little  room. 

Crang  laughed  wickedly. 

"I  am  afraid  I  committed  a  breach  of  medical  eti- 
quette," he  said.  "I  sent  to  San  Francisco  and  got 
the  dope  on  the  quiet  about  this  Mr.  Larmon.  I  found 
out  that  he  is  an  enormously  wealthy  man;  and  I  also 
found  out  that  he  poses  as  an  immaculate  pillar  of 
society.  It  looks  pretty  good,  doesn't  it,  Bruce — for 
me?  Two  birds  with  one  stone;  you  for  trying  to 
get  between  me  and  Claire ;  and  Larmon  coughing  up 
the  dough  to  save  your  hide  and  save  himself  from 
being  exposed  for  what  he  is!" 

John  Bruce  made  no  answer.  They  were  not  so 
fanciful  now,  not  so  unreal  and  wandering,  those 
dreams  when  he  had  been  ill,  those  dreams  in  which 
there  had  been  a  man  with  a  quill  toothpick,  and  an- 
other with  a  sinister,  loathsome  face,  whose  head  was 
always  cocked  in  a  listening  attitude. 


1 78  PAWNED 

"Well,  I  guess  you've  got  it  now,  all  of  it,  haven't 
you?"  Crang  snarled.  "It's  lucky  for  you  Larmon's 
got  the  coin,  or  I'd  pass  you  out  for  what  you  did  the 
other  night.  As  it  is  you're  getting  out  of  it  light. 
There's  paper  on  the  table.  You  write  him  a  letter 
that  will  get  him  down  here  with  a  blank  check  in  his 
pocket.  I'll  help  you  to  word  it."  Crang  smiled  un- 
pleasantly. "He  will  be  quite  comfortable  here  while 
the  check  is  going  through  the  bank;  for  it  would  be 
most  unfortunate,  you  know,  if  he  had  a  chance  to 
stop  payment  on  it.  And  I  might  say  that  I  am  not 
worrying  at  all  about  any  reprisals  through  the  trac- 
ing of  the  check  afterward,  for  if  Mr.  Larmon  is  pay- 
ing me  to  keep  my  mouth  shut  there  is  no  fear  of  his 
opening  his  own." 

John  Bruce  turned  slowly  around. 

"And  if  I  don't?"  he  asked  quietly. 

Crang  studied  the  revolver  in  his  hand  for  a  mo- 
ment. He  looked  up  finally  with  a  smile  that  was 
hideous  in  its  malignancy. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  particularly  care,"  he  said. 
"You  are  going  to  get  out  of  my  path  in  any  case, 
though  my  personal  inclination  is  to  snuff  you  out,  and" 
— his  voice  rose  suddenly — "damn  you,  I'd  like  to  see 
you  dead;  but  on  the  other  hand,  my  business  sense 
tells  me  that  I'd  be  better  off  with,  say,  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars  in  my  pocket.  Do  you  get  the  idea, 
my  dear  Mr.  Bruce?  I  am  sure  you  do.  And  as 
your  medical  advisor,  for  your  health  is  still  very 
much  involved,  I  would  strongly  urge  you  to  write 
the  letter.  But  at  the  same  time  I  want  to  be  per- 
fectly frank  with  you.  There  is  a  tail  to  it  as  far  as 
you  are  concerned.  I  have  a  passage  in  my  pocket — 


THE  TWO  PENS  179 

a  first-class  passage,  in  fact  a  stateroom  where  you  can 
be  secured  so  that  I  may  make  certain  you  do  not  leave 
the  ship  prematurely  at  the  dock — for  South  America, 
on  a  steamer  sailing  to-morrow  afternoon.  The  pas- 
sage is  made  out  in  the  name  of  John  Bruce." 

"You  seem  to  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  I  would 
agree  to  your  proposal,"  said  John  Bruce  pleasantly. 

"I  have,"  Crang  answered  shortly.  "I  give  you 
credit  in  some  respects  for  not  being  altogether  a 
fool." 

"In  other  words,"  said  John  Bruce,  still  pleasantly, 
"if  I  will  trap  Mr.  Larmon  into  coming  here  so  that 
you  will  have  him  in  your  power,  and  can  hold  him 
until  you  have  squeezed  out  of  him  what  you  consider 
the  fair  amount  he  should  pay  as  blackmail,  or  do 
away  with  him  perhaps,  if  he  is  obstinate,  I  am  to  go 
free  and  sail  for  South  America  to-morrow  afternoon; 
failing  this,  I  am  to  snuff  out — I  think  you  called  it — 
at  the  hands  of  either  yourself  or  this  gentlemanly 
looking  band  of  apaches  you  have  gathered  around 
you." 

"You  haven't  made  any  mistake  so  far!"  said  Crang 
evenly.  He  jerked  his  hand  toward  the  table.  "It's 
that  piece  of  paper  there,  or  your  hide." 

"Yes,"  said  John  Bruce  slowly.  He  stared  for  an 
instant,  set-faced,  into  Crang's  eyes.  "Well,  then,  go 
ahead!" 

Crang's  eyes  narrowed. 

"You  mean,"  his  voice  was  hoarse  with  menace, 
"you  mean " 

"Yes!"  said  John  Bruce  tersely.    "My  hide!" 

Crang  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  The  revolver 
in  his  hand  seemed  to  edge  a  little  nearer  to  John 


1 8o  PAWNED 

Bruce  as  though  to  make  more  certain  of  its  aim. 
Crang's  eyes  were  alight  with  passion. 

John  Bruce  did  not  move.  It  was  over — this  sec- 
ond— or  the  next.  Crang's  threats  were  literal. 
Claire  had  said  so.  He  knew  it.  It  was  in  Crang's 
eyes — a  sort  of  unholy  joy,  a  madman's  frenzy.  Well, 
why  didn't  the  man  fire  and  have  done  with  it? 

And  then  suddenly  Crang's  shoulders  lifted  in  a 
mocking  shrug. 

"Maybe  you  haven't  got  this — straight,"  he  said 
between  closed  teeth.  "I  guess  I've  paid  you  the 
compliment  of  crediting  you  with  a  quicker  intelli- 
gence than  you  possess!  I'll  give  you  thirty  minutes 
alone  to  think  it  over  and  figure  out  where  you  stand." 

Crang  backed  to  the  door. 

The  door  closed.  John  Bruce  heard  the  key  turn  in 
the  lock.  He  stared  about  him  at  the  miserable  sur- 
roundings. Thirty  minutes!  He  did  not  need  thirty 
minutes,  or  thirty  seconds,  to  realize  his  position.  He 
was  not  even  sure  that  he  was  thankful  for  the  re- 
prieve. It  meant  half  an  hour  more  of  life,  but 

Cornered  like  a  rat!  To  go  out  at  the  hands  of  a 
degenerate  dope  fiend  .  .  .  the  man  had  been  cunning 
enough  .  .  .  Hawkins! 

John  Bruce  paced  his  little  section  of  the  cellar.  His 
footsteps  made  no  sound  on  the  soft  earth.  This  was 
his  condemned  cell;  his  warders  a  batch  of  gunmen 
whose  trade  was  murder. 

Larmon !  They  had  not  been  able  to  trick  Larmon 
into  their  power  so  easily,  because  there  wasn't  any 
Hawkins.  No,  there  was — John  Bruce.  John  Bruce 
was  the  bait.  Queer!  Queer  that  he  had  ever  met 
Larmon,  and  queer  that  the  end  should  come  like  this 


THE  TWO  PENS  181 

Faustus  hadn't  had  his  fling  yet.    That  quill  toothpick 
with  which  he  had  signed 

John  Bruce  stood  stock  still — his  eyes  suddenly 
fastened  on  the  piece  of  paper  on  the  table. . 

"My  God!"  John  Bruce  whispered  hoarsely. 

He  ran  silently  to  the  door  and  listened.  He  could 
hear  nothing.  He  ran  back  to  the  table,  threw  himself 
into  the  chair,  and  snatching  the  sheet  of  paper  toward 
him,  took  out  a  fountain  pen  from  his  pocket.  Near 
the  lower  edge  of  the  paper,  and  in  a  minutely  small 
hand,  he  began  to  write  rapidly. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  minutes  John  Bruce  stood  up. 
There  was  neither  sign  nor  mark  upon  the  paper,  save 
an  almost  invisible  impression  made  by  his  thumb 
nail,  which  he  had  set  as  a  sign  post,  as  it  were,  to 
indicate  where  he  had  begun  to  write.  It  was  a  large 
sheet  of  unruled  paper,  foolscap  in  size,  and  there  was 
but  little  likelihood  of  reaching  so  far  down  with  the 
letter  that  Crang  was  so  insistent  upon  having,  but  he 
did  not  propose  in  any  event  to  superimpose  anything 
over  what  he  had  just  written.  He  could  always  turn  • 
the  sheet  and  begin  at  the  top  on  the  other  side ! 

Again  he  began  to  pace  up  and  down  across  the 
soft  floor,  but  now  there  was  a  grim  smile  on  his  face. 
Behind  Larmon  and  his  enormous  wealth  lay  Lar- 
mon's  secret  organization,  that,  once  set  in  motion, 
would  have  little  difficulty  in  laying  a  dozen  Crangs, 
by  the  heels.  And  Crang  was  yellow.  Let  Crang  but 
for  an  instant  realize  that  his  own  skin  was  at  stake, 
and  he  would  squeal  without  hesitation — and  what  had 
narrowly  escaped  being  tragedy  would  dissolve  into 
opera  bouffe.  Also,  it  was  very  nice  indeed  of  Crang 
to  see  that  the  message  reached  Larmon's  hands! 


1 82  PAWNED 

And  it  was  the  way  out  for  Claire,  too!  It  was 
Crang  who  had  mentioned  something  about  two  birds 
with  one  stone,  wasn't  it?  Claire!  John  Bruce 
frowned.  Was  he  so  sure  after  all?  There  seemed  to 
be  something  unfathomable  between  Claire  and 
Crang;  the  bond  between  them  one  that  no  ordinary 
means  would  break. 

His  brain  seemed  to  go  around  in  cycles  now — 
Claire,  Larmon,  Crang;  Claire,  Larmon,  Crang.  .  .  . 
He  lost  track  of  time — until  suddenly  he  heard  a  key 
rattle  in  the  lock.  And  then,  quick  and  silent  as  a  cat 
in  his  movements,  he  slipped  across  the  earthen  floor, 
and  flung  himself  face  down  upon  the  mattress. 

A  moment  more,  and  some  one  prodded  him 
roughly.  His  hair  was  rumpled,  his  face  anxious  and 
dejected,  as  he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow.  Crang 
and  two  of  his  apaches  were  standing  over  him.  One 
of  the  latter  held  an  ugly  looking  stiletto. 

"Stand  him  up !"  ordered  Crang. 

John  Bruce  made  no  resistance  as  the  two  men 
jerked  him  unceremoniously  to  his  feet. 

Crang  came  and  stared  into  his  face. 

"I  guess  from  the  look  of  you,"  Crang  leered, 
"you've  put  in  those  thirty  minutes  to  good  advantage. 
You're  about  ready  to  write  that  letter,  aren't  you?" 

John  Bruce  looked  around  him  miserably.  He 
shook  his  head. 

"No— no;  I— I  can't,"  he  said  weakly.  "For  God's 
sake,  Crang,  you — you  know  I  can't." 

"Sure — I  know!"  said  Crang  imperturbably.  He 
nodded  to  the  man  with  the  stiletto.  "He's  more  used 
to  steel  than  bullets,  and  he  likes  it  better.  Don't 
keep  him  waiting." 


THE  TWO  PENS  183 

John  Bruce  felt  the  sudden  prick  of  the  weapon  on 
his  flesh — it  went  a  little  deeper. 

"Wait!  Stop!"  he  screamed  out  in  a  well-simu- 
lated paroxysm  of  terror.  "I — I'll  write  it." 

"I  thought  so!"  said  Crang  coolly.  "Well,  go  over 
there  to  the  table  then,  and  sit  down."  He  turned  to 
the  two  men.  "Beat  it!"  he  snapped — and  the  room 
empty  again,  save  for  himself  and  John  Bruce,  he 
tapped  the  sheet  of  paper  with  the  muzzle  of  his  re- 
volver. "I'll  dictate.  Pick  up  that  pen!" 

John  Bruce  obeyed.  He  circled  his  lips  with  his 
tongue. 

"You — you  won't  do  Larmon  any  harm,  will  you?" 
he  questioned  abjectly.  "I — my  life's  worth  more 
than  a  little  money,  if  it's  only  that,  and — and,  if 
that's  all,  I — I'm  sure  he'd  rather  pay." 

"Don't  apologize!"  sneered  Crang.  "Go  on  now, 
and  write.  Address  him  as  you  always  do." 

John  Bruce  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink,  and  wrote  in 
a  small  hand: 

"Dear  Mr.  Larmon: — " 

He  looked  up  in  a  cowed  way. 

"All  right!"  grunted  Crang.  "I  guess  we'll  kill  an- 
other bird,  too,  while  we're  at  it."  He  smiled  crypti- 
cally. "Go  on  again,  and  write!" 

And  John  Bruce  wrote  as  Crang  dictated  : 

"I'm  here  in  my  rooms  in  the  same  hotel  with  you, 
but  am  closely  watched.  Our  compact  is  known.  I 
asked  a  girl  to  marry  me,  and  in  doing  so  felt  she  had 
the  right  to  my  full  confidence.  She  did  me  in. 
She " 

John  Bruce's  pen  had  halted. 

"Go  on!"  prompted  Crang  sharply.     "It's  got  to 


1 84  PAWNED 

i 

sound  right  for  Larmon — so  that  he  will  believe  it. 
He's  not  a  fool,  is  he?" 

"No,"  said  John  Bruce. 

"Well,  go  on  thenl" 

And  John  Bruce  wrote : 

"She  was  all  the  time  engaged  to  the  head  of  a  gang 
of  crooks."  Crang's  malicious  chuckle  interrupted  his 
dictation. 

"I'm  not  sparing  myself,  you  see.    Go  on!" 

John  Bruce  continued  his  writing: 

"They  are  after  blackmail  now,  and  threaten  to  ex- 
pose you.  I  telegraphed  you  to  come  under  an  alias 
because  we  are  up  against  it  and  you  should  be  on  the 
spot ;  but  if  they  knew  you  were  here  they  would  only 
attach  the  more  importance  to  it,  and  the  price  would 
go  up.  They  believe  you  are  still  in  San  Francisco, 
and  that  I  am  communicating  with  you  by  mail.  They 
are  growing  impatient.  You  can  trust  the  bearer  of 
this  letter  absolutely.  Go  with  him.  He  will  take 
you  where  we  can  meet  without  arousing  any  suspicion. 
I  am  leaving  the  hotel  now.  If  possible  we  should  not 
risk  more  than  one  conference  together,  so  bring  a 
blank  check  with  you.  There  is  no  other  way  out. 
It  is  simply  a  question  of  the  amount.  I  am  bitterly 
sorry  that  this  has  happened  through  me.  John 
Bruce." 

Crang,  with  his  revolver  pressed  into  the  back  of 
John  Bruce's  neck,  leaned  over  John  Bruce's  shoulder 
and  read  the  letter  carefully. 

"Fold  it,  and  put  it  in  that  envelope  without  seal- 
ing it,  and  address  the  envelope  to  Mr.  R.  L.  Peters 
at  the  Bayne-Miloy  Hotel  I"  he  instructed. 

John  Bruce  folded  the  letter.     As  he  did  so,  he 


THE  TWO  PENS  185 

noted  that  his  signature  was  a  good  two  or  three  inches 
above  the  thumb  nail  mark.  Ke  placed  the  letter  in 
the  envelope,  and  addressed  the  latter  as  Crang  had 
directed. 

Crang  moved  around  to  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
tucked  the  envelope  into  his  pocket,  and  grinned  mock- 
ingly. 

And  then  without  a  word  John  Bruce  got  up  from 
his  chair,  and  flung  himself  face  down  on  the  mattress 
again. 


—  XV  — 

THE  CLEW 

PAUL  VENIZA,  propped  up  in  bed  on  his 
pillows,  followed  Claire  with  his  eyes  as  she 
moved  about  the  room.  It  was  perhaps  because 
he  had  been  too  ill  of  late  to  notice  anything,  that  he 
experienced  now  a  sudden  shock  at  Claire's  appear- 
ance. She  looked  pale  and  drawn,  and  even  her  move- 
ments seemed  listless. 

"What's  to-night?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"Wednesday,  father,"  she  answered. 

Paul  Veniza  plucked  at  the  counterpane.  It  was 
all  too  much  for  Claire.  Besides — besides  Crang,  she 
had  been  up  all  night  for  the  last  two  nights,  and  since 
Monday  she  had  not  been  out  of  the  house. 

"Put  on  your  hat,  dear,  and  run  over  and  tell  Haw- 
kins I  want  to  see  him,"  he  smiled. 

Claire  stared  at  the  old  pawnbroker. 

"Why,  father,"  she  protested,  "it's  rather  late, 
isn't  it?  And,  besides,  you  would  be  all  alone  in  the 
house." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Paul  Veniza.  "I'm  all  right. 
Much  better.  I'll  be  up  to-morrow.  But  I  particularly 
want  to  see  Hawkins  to-night."  He  did  not  particu- 
larly want  to  see  Hawkins  or  any  one  else,  but  if  he 
did  not  have  some  valid  excuse  she  would  most  cer- 
tainly refuse  to  go  out  and  leave  him  alone.  A  little 

1 86 


THE  CLEW  187 

walk  and  a  breath  of  fresh  air  would  do  Claire  a 
world  of  good.  And  as  for  the  lateness  of  the  hour, 
Claire  in  that  section  of  the  city  was  as  safe  as  in  her 
own  home.  "Please  do  as  I  ask  you,  Claire,"  he  in- 
sisted. 

"Very  well,  father,"  she  agreed  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  and  went  and  put  on  her  hat. 

From  downstairs,  as  she  opened  the  front  door, 
she  called  up  to  him  a  little  anxiously : 

"You  are  sure  you  are  all  right?" 

"Quite  sure,  dear,"  Paul  Veniza  called  back.  "Don't 
hurry." 

Claire  stepped  out  on  the  street.  It  was  not  far 
to  go — just  around  the  first  corner  and  halfway  down 
the  next  block — and  at  first  she  walked  briskly,  im- 
pelled by  an  anxiety  to  get  back  to  the  house  again  as 
soon  as  possible,  but  insensibly,  little  by  little,  her 
footsteps  dragged. 

What  was  it?  Something  in  the  night,  the  darkness, 
that  promised  a  kindly  cloak  against  the  breaking  of 
her  self-restraint,  that  bade  her  let  go  of  herself  and 
welcome  the  tears  that  welled  so  spontaneously  to  her 
eyes?  Would  it  bring  relief?  To-day,  all  evening, 
more  than  ever  before,  she  had  felt  her  endurance  al- 
most at  an  end.  She  turned  her  face  upward  to  the 
night.  It  was  black;  not  a  star  showed  anywhere.  It 
seemed  as  though  something  dense  and  forbidding  had 
been  drawn  like  a  somber  mantle  over  the  world.  God, 
even,  seemed  far  away  to-night. 

She  shivered  a  little.  Could  that  really  be  true — 
that  God  was  turning  His  face  away  from  her?  She 
had  tried  so  hard  to  cling  to  her  faith.  It  was  all 
she  had;  it  was  all  that  of  late  had  stood  between  her 


1 88  PAWNED 

and  a  despair  and  misery,  a  horror  so  overwhelming 
that  death  by  contrast  seemed  a  boon. 

Her  lips  quivered  as  she  walked  along.  It  almost 
seemed  as  though  she  did  not  want  to  fight  any  more. 
And  yet  there  had  been  a  great  and  very  wonderful 
reward  given  to  her  before  she  had  even  made  the 
final  sacrifice  that  she  had  pledged  herself  to  make. 
If  her  soul  revolted  from  the  association  that  must 
come  with  Doctor  Crang,  if  every  instinct  within  her 
rose  up  in  stark  horror  before  the  contamination  of 
the  man's  wanton  moral  filth,  one  strange  and  won- 
drous thing  sustained  her.  And  she  had  no  right  to 
mistrust  God,  for  God  must  have  brought  her  this. 
She  had  bought  an  unknown  life — that  had  become 
dearer  to  her  than  her  own,  or  anything  that  might 
happen  to  her.  She  knew  love.  It  was  no  longer  a 
stranger  who  would  live  on  through  the  years  because 
she  was  soon  to  pay  the  price  that  had  been  set  upon 
his  life — it  was  John  Bruce. 

Claire  caught  her  hands  suddenly  to  her  breast. 
John  Bruce!  She  was  still  afraid — for  John  Bruce. 
And  to-night,  all  evening,  that  fear  had  been  growing 
stronger,  chilling  her  with  a  sense  of  evil  premonition 
and  foreboding.  Was  it  only  premonition?  Crang 
had  threatened.  She  had  heard  the  threats.  And 
she  knew  out  of  her  own  terrible  experience  that 
Crang,  as  between  human  life  and  his  own  desires, 
held  human  life  as  naught.  And  yet,  surely  John 
Bruce  was  safe  from  him  now — at  least  his  life  was 
safe.  That  was  how  Crang  had  wrung  the  promise 
from  her.  No,  she  was  not  so  sure  1  There  was  per- 
sonal enmity  between  them  now.  Besides,  if  anything 
happened  she  would  not  be  able  to  bring  it  to  Crang's 


THE  CLEW  189 

door — Crang  would  take  care  of  that — and  her 
promise  would  still  hold.  And  so  she  was  afraid. 

She  had  not  seen  Crang  since  the  night  that  John 
Bruce  had  thrown  him  down  the  stairs.  She  had 
thanked  God  for  the  relief  his  absence  had  brought 
her — but  now,  here  again,  she  was  not  so  sure !  What 
had  kept  him  away?  Where  was  John  Bruce?  She 
began  to  regret  that  she  had  told  John  Bruce  he  must 
not  attempt  to  see  her  or  communicate  with  her  any 
more,  though  she  had  only  done  so  because  she  had 
been  afraid  for  his  sake — that  it  would  but  arouse  the 
very  worst  in  Doctor  Crang.  Perhaps  John  Bruce  had 
yielded  to  her  pleading  and  had  left  the  city.  She 
shook  her  head.  If  she  knew  the  man  she  loved  at 
all,  John  Bruce  would  run  from  no  one,  and 

Claire  halted  abruptly.  She  had  reached  the  dingy 
rooming  house  where  Hawkins  lived.  She  brushed 
her  hand  resolutely  across  her  eyes  as  she  mounted  the 
steps.  The  tears  had  come  after  all,  for  her  lashes 
were  wet. 

It  was  not  necessary  either  to  ring  or  knock;  the 
door  was  always  unfastened;  and,  besides,  she  had  been 
here  so  many,  many  times  that  she  knew  the  house  al- 
most as  well  as  her  own  home.  She  opened  the  door, 
stepped  into  a  black  hallway,  and  began  to  feel  her 
way  up  the  creaking  staircase.  There  was  the  possi- 
bility, of  course,  that  Hawkins  was  either  out  or  al- 
ready in  bed ;  but  if  he  were  out  she  would  leave  a  note 
in  his  room  for  him  so  that  he  would  come  over  to  the 
old  pawn-shop  when  he  returned,  and  if  he  were  al- 
ready in  bed  her  message  delivered  through  the  door 
would  soon  bring  Hawkins  out  of  it  again — Hawkins, 
since  he  had  been  driving  that  old  car  which  he  had 


I9o  PAWNED 

created,  was  well  accustomed  to  calls  at  all  hours  of 
the  night. 

A  thin,  irregular  streak  of  light,  the  only  sign  of 
light  she  had  seen  anywhere  in  the  house,  showed  now 
at  the  threshold  under  Hawkins'  ill-fitting  door,  as  she 
reached  the  landing.  She  stepped  quickly  to  the  door 
and  knocked.  There  was  no  answer.  She  knocked 
again.  There  was  still  no  answer.  Claire  smiled  a 
little  whimsically.  Hawkins  was  growing  extravagant 
— he  had  gone  out  and  left  the  light  burning.  She 
tried  the  door,  and,  finding  it  unlocked-,  opened  it, 
stepped  forward  into  the  room — and  with  a  sudden, 
low,  half-hurt,  half-frightened  cry,  stood  still.  Haw- 
kins was  neither  out,  nor  was  he  in  bed.  Hawkins 
was  sprawled  partly  on  the  floor  and  partly  across 
a  chair  in  which  he  had  obviously  been  unable  to  pre- 
serve his  balance.  Several  bottles,  all  empty  but  one, 
stood  upon  the  table.  There  were  two  dirty  glasses 
beside  the  bottles,  and  another  one,  broken,  on  the 
floor.  Hawkins  was  snoring  stertorously. 

It  seemed  somehow  to  Claire  standing  there  that 
this  was  the  last  straw — and  yet,  too,  there  was  only  a 
world  of  pity  in  her  heart  for  the  old  man.  All  the 
years  rolled  before  her.  She  remembered  as  a  child 
climbing  upon  his  knee  and  pleading  for  the  tick-tick — 
tha*t  great  cumbersome  silver  watch,  which,  fallen  out 
of  his  pocket  now,  dangled  by  its  chain  and  swung  in 
jeiky  rhythm  to  his  breathing.  She  remembered  the 
days  when,  a  little  older,  she  had  dressed  herself  in  her 
best  clothes,  and  to  Hawkins'  huge  delight  had  played 
at  princess,  while  he  drove  her  about  in  his  old  ram- 
shackle hansom  cab;  and,  later  still,  his  gentle  faithful- 
ness to  Paul  Veniza  in  his  trouble,  and  to  her — and  the 


THE  CLEW  191 

love,  and  a  strange,  always  welcome,  tenderness  that 
he  had  ever  shown  her.  Poor  frail  soul!  Hawkins 
had  been  good  to  every  one — but  Hawkins! 

She  could  not  leave  him  like  this,  but  she  was  not 
strong  enough  alone  to  carry  him  to  his  bed.  She 
turned  and  ran  hurriedly  downstairs.  There  was  the 
widow  Hedges,  of  course,  the  old  landlady. 

Back  at  the  end  of  the'  lower  hall,  Claire  pounded 
upon  a  door.  Presently  a  woman's  voice  answered  her. 
A  moment  later  a  light  appeared  as  the  door  was 
opened,  an'd  with  k  an  apparition  in  an  old  gingham 
wrapper  and  curl  papers. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Miss  Claire!"  the  woman  exclaimed 
in  surprise.  "What's  brought  you  over  here  to-night, 
dear?  Is  your  father  worse?" 

"No,"  Claire  answered.  "He  wanted  Hawkins, 
and " 

Mrs.  Hedges  shook  her  head. 

"Hawkins  ain't  in,"  she  said;  "but  I'll  see  that  he 
gets  the  message  when  he  comes  back.  He  went  out 
with  the  car  quite  a  little  while  ago  with  some  men  he 
had  with  him." 

"With  the  car?"  Claire  found  herself  suddenly  a 
little  frightened,  she  did  not  quite  know  why.  "Well, 
he's  back  now,  Mrs.  Hedges." 

"Oh,  no,"  asserted  Mrs.  Hedges  positively.  "I 
might  not  have  heard  him  going  upstairs,  but  I  would 
have  heard  the  car  coming  in.  It  ain't  come  back 
yet." 

"But  Hawkins  is  upstairs,"  said  Claire  a  little 
heavily.  "I — I've  been  up." 

"You  say  Hawkins  is  upstairs?"  Mrs.  Hedges 
stared  incredulously.  "That's  very  strange!"  She 


I92  PAWNED 

turned  and  ran  back  into  her  room  and  to  a  rear  win- 
dow. "Look,  Miss  Claire!  Come  here!  You  can 
see!"  And  as  Claire  joined  her:  "The  door  of  the 
shed,  or  the  gradge  as  he  calls  it,  is  open,  and  you  can 
see  for  yourself  it's  empty.  If  he's  upstairs  what 
could  he  have  done  with  the  car?  It  ain't  out  in  front 
of  the  house,  is  it,  and — oh !"  She  caught  Claire's  arm 
anxiously.  "There's  been  an  accident,  you  mean,  and 
he's " 

"I  am  sure  he  never  left  the  house,"  said  Claire, 
and  her  voice  in  its  composed  finality  sounded  strange 
even  in  her  own  ears.  She  was  thoroughly  frightened 
now,  and  her  fears  were  beginning  to  take  concrete 
form.  There  were  not  many  who  would  have  any  use 
for  that  queer  old  car  that  was  so  intimately  associated 
with  Hawkins!  She  could  think  of  only  one — and  of 
only  one  reason.  She  pulled  at  Mrs.  Hedges'  arm. 
"Come  upstairs,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Hedges  reached  the  door  of  Hawkins'  room 
first. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  Mrs.  Hedges  cried  out  wildly.  "He 
ain't  dead,  is  he?" 

"No,"  said  Claire  in  a  strained  voice.  "He's — he's 
only  had  too  much  to  drink.  Help  me  lift  him  on  the 
bed." 

It  taxed  the  strength  of  the  two  women. 

"And  the  car's  stole!"  gasped  Mrs.  Hedges,  fight- 
ing for  her  breath. 

"Yes,"  said  Claire;  "I  am  afraid  so." 

"Then  we'll  get  the  police  at  once !"  announced  Mrs. 
Hedges. 

Claire  looked  at  her  for  a  moment. 


THE  CLEW  193 

"No,"  she  said  slowly,  shaking  her  head.  "You 
mustn't  do  that.  It — it  will  come  back." 

"Comeback?"  Mrs.  Hedges  stared  helplessly.  "It 
ain't  a  cat!  You — you  ain't  quite  yourself,  are  you, 
Miss  Claire?  Poor  dear,  this  has  upset  you.  It  ain't 
a  fit  thing  for  young  eyes  like  yours  to  see.  Me — I'm 
used  to  it." 

"I  am  quite  myself."  Claire  forced  a  calmness  she 
was  far  from  feeling  into  her  voice.  "You  mustn't 
notify  the  police,  or  do  a  thing,  except  just  look  after 
Hawkins.  It — it's  father's  car,  you  know;  and  he'll 
know  best  what  to  do." 

"Well,  maybe  that's  so,"  admitted  Mrs.  Hedges. 

"Do  you  know  who  the  men  were  who  were  here 
with  Hawkins?"  Claire  asked. 

"No,  I  don't,"  Mrs.  Hedges  answered  excitedly. 
"The  thieving  devils,  coming  here  and  getting  Hawkins 
off  like  this !  I  just  knew  there  were  some  men  up  in 
his  room  with  him  because  I  heard  them  talking  during 
the  evening,  and  then  when  I  heard  them  go  out  and 
get  the  car  I  thought,  of  course,  that  Hawkins  had 
gone  with  them." 

"I — I  see,"  said  Claire,  striving  to  speak  naturally. 
"I — I'll  go  back  to  father  now.  I  can't  leave  him  alone 
very  long,  anyhow.  I'll  tell  him  what  has  happened, 
and — and  he'll  decide  what  to  do.  You'll  look  after 
Hawkins,  won't  you,  Mrs.  Hedges?" 

"You  run  along,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hedges  reassur- 
ingly. "Who  else  but  me  has  looked  after  him  these 
ten  years?" 

Claire  ran  from  the  room  and  down  the  stairs,  and1 
out  to  the  street.  The  one  thing  left  for  her  to  do 
was  to  reach  home  and  get  to  the  telephone — get  the 


i94  PAWNED 

Bayne-Miloy  Hotel — and  John  Bruce.  Perhaps  she 
was  already  too  late.  She  ran  almost  blindly  along 
the  street.  Her  intuition,  the  foreboding  that  had  ob- 
sessed her  so  heavily  all  evening,  was  only  too  likely 
now  to  prove  itself  far  from  groundless.  What  object, 
save  one,  could  anybody  have  in  obtaining  possession 
of  the  traveling  pawn-shop,  Ind  at  the  same  time  of 
keeping  Hawkins  temporarily  out  of  the  road?  Per- 
haps her  deduction  would  show  flaws  if  it  were  sub- 
jected to  the  test  of  pure  logic,  perhaps  there  were  a 
thousand  other  reasons  that  would  account  equally 
well,  and  even  more  logically,  for  what  had  happened, 
but  she  knew  it  was  Crang — and  Crang  could  have  but 
one  object  in  view.  The  man  was  clever,  diabolically 
clever.  In  some  way  he  was  using  that  car  and  Haw- 
kins'  helplessness  to  trap  the  man  he  had  threatened. 
She  must  warn  John  Bruce.  There  was  not  an  instant 
to  lose !  To  lose !  How  long  ago  had  that  car  been 
taken?  Was  there  even  a  chance  left  that  it  was  not 
already  far  too  late  ?  She  had  not  thought  to  ask  how 
long  ago  it  was  when  Mrs.  Hedges  had  heard  the  car 
leave  the  garage. 

It  had  never  seemed  so  far — just  that  little  half 
block  and  halfway  along  another.  It  seemed  as  though 
she  had  been  an  hour  in  coming  that  little  way  when 
she  finally  reached  her  home.  Her  breath  coming  in 
hard,  short  gasps,  she  opened  the  door,  closed  it,  and, 
with  no  thought  but  one  in  her  mind,  ran  across  the 
room  to  the  telephone.  She  remembered  the  number 
of  the  Bayne-Miloy.  She  snatched  the  telephone  re- 
ceiver from  the  hook — and  then,  as  though  her  arm 
had  suddenly  become  incapable  of  further  movement, 
the  receiver  remained  poised  halfway  to  her  ear. 


THE  CLEW  195 

Doctor  Crang  was  leaning  over  the  banister,  and 
looking  down  at  her. 

With  a  stifled  little  cry,  Claire  replaced  the  receiver. 

Paul  Veniza's  voice  reached  her  from  above. 

"Is  that  you,  Claire?"  he  called. 

"Yes,  father,"  she  answered. 

Doctor  Crang  came  down  the  stairs. 

"I  just  dropped  in  a  minute  ago — not  professionally" 
— a  snarl  crept  into  his  voice — "for  I  have  never  been 
informed  that  your  father  was  ilL" 

Claire  did  not  look  up. 

"It — it  wasn't  serious,"  she  said. 

"So!"  Crang  smiled  a  little  wickedly.  "I  wonder 
where  you  get  the  gambling  spirit  from?  One  of  these 
days  you'll  find  out  how  serious  these  attacks  are!" 
He  took  a  step  forward.  "Your  father  tells  me  you 
have  been  over  to  Hawkins'  room." 

There  was  a  curious  hint  of  both  challenge  and  per- 
verted humor  in  his  voice.  It  set  at  rest  any  lingering 
doubt  Claire  might  have  had. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  faced  him  now,  her  eyes,  hard 
and  steady,  fixed  on  his. 

"Poor  Hawkins!"  sighed  Doctor  Crang  ironically. 
"Even  the  best  of  us  have  our  vices!  It  should  teach 
us  to  be  tolerant  with  others!" 

Claire's  little  form  was  rigidly  erect. 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  how  much  I  hate  you?"  she 
said  in  a  tense,  low  voice. 

"You've  told  me  often  enough!"  A  savage,  hungry 
look  came  into  Crang's  eyes.  "But  you're  mine,  for  all 
that!  Mine,  Claire!  Mine!  You  understand  that, 
eh?" 

He  advanced  toward  her.    The  door  of  the  inner 


i96  PAWNED 

room,  that  for  weeks,  until  a  few  days  ago,  had  been 
occupied  by  John  Bruce,  was  just  behind  her,  and  she 
retreated  through  it.  He  followed  her.  She  did  not 
want  to  cry  out — the  sound  would  reach  the  sick  room 
above;  and,  besides,  she  dared  not  show  the  man  that 
she  had  any  fear. 

"Don't  follow  me  like  that!"  she  breathed  fiercely. 

"Why  not?"  he  retorted,  as  he  switched  on  the  light 
and  closed  the  door.  "I've  got  the  right  to,  even  if 
I  hadn't  something  that  I  came  over  here  particularly 
to-night  to  tell  you  about — quite  privately." 

She  had  put  the  table  between  them.  That  he  made 
no  effort  to  come  nearer  for  the  moment  afforded  her 
a  certain  relief,  but  there  was  something  in  the  smile 
with  which  he  surveyed  her  now,  a  cynical,  gloating 
triumph,  that  chilled  her. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  she  demanded. 

"I  trapped  that  damned  lover  of  yours  to-night!" 
he  announced  coolly. 

Claire  felt  her  face  go  white.  It  was  true,  then! 
She  fought  madly  with  herself  for  self-possession. 

"If  you  mean  Mr.  Bruce,"  she  said  deliberately,  "I 
was  just  going  to  try  to  warn  him  over  the  phone; 
though,  even  then,  I  was  afraid  I  was  too  late." 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed  sharply.     "You  knew,  then?" 

Claire  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  said  contemptuously.  "My  faith  in 
you  where  evil  is  concerned  is  limitless.  I  heard  your 
threats.  I  saw  Hawkins  a  few  minutes  ago.  He  was 
quite — quite  helpless.  You,  or  some  of  your  confed- 
erates, traded  on  his  weakness,  took  the  key  of  the  car 
away  from  him,  and  then  stole  the  car.  Ordinary 
thieves  would  not  have  acted  like  that."  An  icy  smile 


THE  CLEW  197 

came  to  her  lips.  "His  landlady  thought  the  police 
should  be  notified  that  the  car  had  been  stolen." 

"You  always  were  clever,  Claire,"  Crang  grinned 
admiringly.  "You've  got  some  brains — all  there  are 
around  here,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out.  You've  got  it 
straight,  all  right.  Mr.  John  Bruce,  Esquire,  came  out 
of  Lavergne's  on  being  informed  that  Hawkins  was  in 
bad  shape — no  lie  about  that! — and  walked  into  the 
car  without  a  murmur.  Too  bad  to  bother  the  police, 
though — the  car  will  have  been  left  in  front  of  Haw- 
kins'  door  again  by  now." 

It  was  hard  to  keep  her  courage ;  hard  to  keep  her 
lips  from  trembling;  hard  to  keep  the  tears  back;  hard 
to  pretend  that  she  was  not  afraid. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him?"  Her  voice 
was  very  low.  "The  promise  that  I  gave  you  was  on 
the  condition  that  he  lived — not  only  then,  but  now." 

Crang  laughed  outright. 

"Oh,  don't  worry  about  that!  He'd  never  let  it  get 
that  far.  He  thinks  too  much  of  Mr.  Bruce !  He  has 
already  taken  care  of  himself — at  another  man's  ex- 
pense." 

Claire  stared  numbly.    She  did  not  understand. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Crang,  with  brutal  viciousness. 
"He's  a  professional  gambler,  this  supposedly  wealthy 
gentleman  of  leisure.  He  works  for  a  man  in  San 
Francisco  named  Larmon,  who  really  is  wealthy,  but 
who  poses  as  a  pillar  of  the  church,  or  words  to  that 
effect.  Never  mind  how,  but  Larmon  will  be  here 
to-night  in  New  York — just  at  the  right  moment.  And 
Mr.  Bruce  has  very  kindly  consented  to  assist  in  con- 
vincing Mr.  Larmon  that  exposure  isn't  worth  the  few 
dollars  that  would  buy  him  immunity." 


198  PAWNED 

Claire  did  not  speak.  Still  she  did  not  understand. 
She  sat  down  wearily  in  the  chair  beside  the  table. 

Crang  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket  abruptly,  and, 
opening  it,  laid  it  in  front  of  Claire. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  would  like  to  read  it,"  he 
said  carelessly. 

Claire  rested  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  cupped 
her  chin  in  her  hands.  She  stared  at  the  letter.  At 
first  the  words  ran  together,  and  she  could  not  make 
them  out.  Then  a  sentence  took  form,  and  then  an- 
other— and  she  read  them  piteously.  "...  I  asked 
a  girl  to  marry  me,  and  in  doing  so  felt  she  had  the 
right  to  my  full  confidence.  She  did  me  in.  ..."  She 
read  on  to  the  end. 

"But  it's  not  true  I"  she  cried  out  sharply.  "I  don't 
believe  it!" 

"Of  course,  it  isn't  true!"  said  Crang  complacently. 
"And,  of  course,  you  don't  believe  it!  But  Larmon 
will.  I've  only  shown  you  the  letter  to  let  you  see  what 
kind  of  a  yellow  cur  this  would-be  lover  of  yours  is. 
Anything  to  save  himself!  But  so  long  as  he  wrote 
the  letter,  I  had  no  quarrel  with  him  if  he  wanted  to 
fake  excuses  for  himself  that  gave  him  a  chance  of 
holding  his  job  with  Larmon  afterwards." 

It  couldn't  be  true — true  that  John  Bruce  had  even 
written  the  letter,  a  miserable  Judas  thing  that  baited 
a  trap,  for  one  who  trusted  him,  with  the  good  name 
of  a  woman  for  whom  he  had  professed  to  care.  It 
couldn't  be  true — but  the  signature  was  there,  and — 
and  it  was  genuine:  "John  Bruce.  .  .  .  John  Bruce 
....  John  Bruce."  It  seemed  to  strike  at  her  with 
the  cruel,  stinging  blows  of  a  whip-lash :  "John  Bruce 
....  John  Bruce.  .  .  .  John " 


THE  CLEW  199 

The  words  became  blurred.  It  was  the  infinite  hope- 
lessness of  everything  that  crushed  her  fortitude,  and 
mocked  it,  and  made  of  it  at  last  a  beaten  thing.  A 
tear  fell  and  splashed  upon  the  page — and  still  an- 
other. She  kept  looking  at  the  letter,  though  she  could 
only  see  it  through  a  blinding  mist.  And  there  was 
something  ominous,  and  something  that  added  to  her 
fear,  that  she  should  imagine  that  her  tears  made 
black  splashes  on  the  blurred  letter  as  they  fell, 
and • 

She  heard  a  sudden  startled  snarl  from  Crang,  and 
the  letter  was  snatched  up  from  the  table.  And  then 
he  seemed  to  laugh  wildly,  without  reason,  as  a  maniac 
would  laugh — and  with  the  letter  clutched  in  his  hand 
rushed  from  the  room.  Claire  crushed  her  hands 
against  her  temples.  Perhaps  it  was  herself  who  had 
gone  mad. 

The  front  door  banged. 


—  XVI  — 

A  WOLF  LICKS  HIS  CHOPS 

OUTSIDE  the  house  Crang  continued  to  run.  He 
was  unconscious  that  he  had  forgotten  his  hat. 
His  face  worked  in  livid  fury.    Alternately  he 
burst  out  into  short,  ugly  gusts  of  laughter  that  made 
of  laughter  an  evil  thing;  alternately,  racked  with  un- 
bridled passion,  he  mouthed  a  flood  of  oaths. 

He  ran  on  for  some  three  blocks,  and  finally  dashed 
up  the  steps  of  a  small,  drab-looking,  cheap  frame 
house.  A  brass  sign,  greenish  with  mold  from  neglect, 
flanked  one  side  of  the  door.  Under  the  street  light 
it  could  just  barely  be  deciphered: 

SYDNEY  ANGUS  CRANG,  M.D., 

He  tried  the  door.  It  was  locked.  He  searched 
impatiently  and  hastily  in  his  pockets  for  his  pass-key, 
and  failing  to  find  it  instantly  he  rang  the  bell;  and 
then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  the  summons, 
he  immediately  began  to  bang  furiously  upon  the 
panels. 

An  old  woman,  his  housekeeper,  whose  bare  feet 
had  obviously  been  thrust  hurriedly  into  slippers,  and 
who  clutched  at  the  neck  of  a  woolen  dressing  gown 
that  also  obviously,  and  with  equal  haste,  had  been 
flung  around  her  shoulders  over  her  nightdress,  finally 
opened  the  door. 

300 


A  WOLF  LICKS  HIS  CHOPS  201 

"Get  out  of  the  roadl"  Crang  snarled — and  brushed 
his  way  roughly  past  her. 

He  stepped  forward  along  an  unlighted  hall,  opened 
a  door,  and  slammed  it  behind  him.  He  switched  on 
the  light.  He  was  in  his  consulting  room.  The  next 
instant  he  was  standing  beside  his  desk,  and  had 
wrenched  John  Bruce's  letter  from  his  pocket.  He 
spread  this  out  on  the  desk  and  glared  at  it.  Beyond 
any  doubt  whatever,  where  Claire's  tears  had  fallen 
on  the  paper,  traces  of  writing  were  faintly  discern- 
ible. Here,  out  of  an  abortive  word,  was  a  well- 
formed  "e";  and  there,  unmistakably,  was  a  capital 
"L." 

Crang  burst  into  a  torrent  of  abuse  and  oaths;  his 
fists  clenched,  and  he  shook  one  of  them  in  the  air. 

"Double-crossed — eh? — damn  him  I"  he  choked. 
"He  tried  to  double-cross  me — did  he?" 

Carrying  the  letter,  he  ran  now  into  a  little  room 
behind  his  office,  where  he  compounded  his  medicines, 
and  that  was  fitted  up  as  a  sort  of  small  laboratory. 

"I'm  a  clever  man,"  Crang  mumbled  to  himself. 
"We'll  see  about  this!" 

With  sudden  complacence  he  began  to  study  the 
sheet  of  paper.  He  nodded  curtly  to  himself  as  he 
noted  that  the  traces  of  the  secret  writing  were  all  on 
the  lower  edge  of  the  paper. 

"We'll  be  very  careful,  very  careful" — Doctor 
Crang  was  still  mumbling — "it  may  be  useful  in  more 
ways  than  one." 

He  turned  on  the  water  faucet,  wet  a  camel's-hair 
brush,  and  applied  the  brush  to  the  lower  edge  of  the 
letter.  The  experiment  was  productive  of  no  result. 
He  stared  at  the  paper  for  a  while  with  wrinkled 


202  PAWNED 

brow,  and  then  suddenly  he  began  to  laugh  ironically. 

"No,  of  course,  notl"  He  was  jeering  at  himself 
now.  "Clever?  You  are  not  clever,  you  are  a  fool  I 
She  cried  on  the  paper.  Tears!  Tears  possess  a 
slight  trace  of" — he  reached  quickly  for  a  glass  con- 
tainer, and  began  to  prepare  a  solution  of  some  sort — 
"a  very  slight  trace  .  .  .  that's  why  the  characters 
that  already  show  are  so  faint.  Now  we'll  see,  Mr. 
John  Bruce,  what  you've  got  to  say.  .  .  .  Salt!  .  .  . 
A  little  salt,  eh?" 

He  dipped  the  camel's-hair  brush  in  the  solution  and 
drew  it  across  the  bottom  edge  of  the  paper  again. 

"Ha,  ha!"  exclaimed  Doctor  Crang  in  eager  excite- 
ment. Letters,  words  and  sentences  began  to  take 
form  under  the  brush.  "Ha,  ha !  He'd  play  that  game 
with  me,  would  he?  Damn  him!" 

Very  carefully  Sydney  Angus  Crang,  M.D.,  worked 
his  brush  upward  on  the  paper  line  by  line,  until,  still 
well  below  the  signature  that  John  Bruce  had  affixed 
in  his,  Crang's,  presence,  there  failed  to  appear  any 
further  trace  of  the  secret  writing.  He  read  as  fast 
as  a  word  appeared — like  a  starving  beast  snatching  in 
ferocious  greed  at  morsels  of  food.  It  made  whole 
and  complete  sense.  His  eyes  feasted  on  it  now  in 
its  entirety: 

Keep  away.  This  is  a  trap.  Stall  till  you  can  turn  tables. 
Information  obtained  while  I  was  delirious.  Am  a  prisoner  in 
hands  of  a  gang  whose  leader  is  a  doctor  named  Crang. 
Veniza  will  tell  you  where  Crang  lives.  Get  Veniza's  address 
from  Lavergne  at  the  house.  The  only  way  to  save  either  of 
us  is  to  trick  Crang.  Look  out  for  yourself.  Bruce. 


203 

He  tossed  the  camel's-hair  brush  away,  returned  to 
his  desk,  spread  the  letter  out  on  a  blotter  to  allow 
the  lower  edge  to  dry,  and  slumping  down  in  his  desk 
chair,  glued  his  eyes  on  the  secret  message,  reading  it 
over  and  over  again. 

"Trick  Crang— eh?— ha,  ha!"  He  began  to 
chuckle  low;  then  suddenly  his  fingers,  crooked  and 
curved  until  they  looked  like  claws,  reached  out  as 
though  to  fasten  upon  some  prey  at  hand.  And  then 
he  chuckled  once  more — and  then  grew  somber,  and 
slumped  deeper  in  his  chair,  and  his  eyes,  brooding, 
were  half  closed.  "Not  to-night,"  he  muttered.  "One 
job  of  it  to-morrow  .  *  .  squeal  like  a  pair  of  rats 
that " 

He  sat  suddenly  bolt  upright  in  his  chair.  It  came 
again — a  low  tapping  on  the  window;  two  raps,  three 
times  repeated.  He  rose  quickly,  crossed  the  room, 
opened  the  door,  and  stood  motionless  for  a  moment 
peering  out  into  the  hall.  It  was  a  purely  precaution- 
ary measure — he  had  little  doubt  but  that  his  old 
housekeeper  had  long  since  mounted  the  stairs  and 
returned  to  her  bed.  He  stepped  rapidly  then  along 
the  hall,  and  opened  the  front  door. 

"That  you,  Birdie?"  he  called  in  a  low  voice. 

A  man's  form  appeared  from  the  shadow  of  the 
stoop. 

"Sure!"  the  man  answered. 

"Come  in!"  Doctor  Crang  said  tersely. 

He  led  the  way  back  into  the  consulting  room,  and 
slumped  down  again  in  his  chair. 

"Well?"  he  demanded. 

"Peters  arrived  all  right,"  Birdie  reported.     "He 


204  PAWNED 

registered  at  the  Bayne-Miloy  Hotel,  and  he's  there 


now." 


"Good!"  grunted  Crang. 

For  a  full  five  minutes  he  remained  silent  and  with- 
out movement  in  his  chair,  apparently  utterly  oblivi- 
ous of  the  other,  who  stood,  shifting  a  little  awkwardly 
from  foot  to  foot,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  desk. 

Then  Crang  spoke — more  to  himself  than  to  Birdie. 

"He'll  be  anxious,  of  course,  and  growing  more  so," 
he  said.  "He  might  make  a  break  of  some  kind.  I'll 
have  to  fix  that.  I'm  not  ready  yet.  What?" 

Birdie,  from  staring  inanely  at  the  wall,  came  to 
himself  with  a  sudden  start  at  what  he  evidently  inter- 
preted as  a  direct  question. 

"Yes — sure !"  he  said  hurriedly.  "No — I  mean,  no, 
you're  not  ready." 

Crang  glared  at  the  man  contemptuously. 

"What  the  hell  do  you  know  about  it?"  he  inquired 
caustically. 

He  picked  up  the  telephone  directory,  studied  it  for 
a  moment,  then,  reaching  for  the  desk  telephone,  asked 
for  his  connection.  Presently  the  Bayne-Miloy  Hotel 
answered  him,  and  he  asked  for  Mr.  R.  L.  Peters' 
room.  A  moment  more  and  a  voice  reached  him  over 
the  phone. 

"Is  that  Mr.  Peters?"  Crang  inquired  quietly.  "Mr. 
R.  L.  Peters,  of  San  Francisco?  .  .  .  Yes?  Then  I 
have  a  message  for  you,  Mr.  Peters,  from  the  person 
who  sent  you  a  telegram  a  few  days  ago  ...  I  beg 
your  pardon?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  am  sure  you  do  ...  My- 
self? I'd  rather  not  mention  any  names  over  the 
phone.  You  understand,  don't  you?  He  told  me  to 
tell  you  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  no  connec- 


A  WOLF  LICKS  HIS  CHOPS  205 

tion  is  known  to  exist  between  you,  and  for  that 
reason  he  does  not  dare  take  the  chance  of  getting  into 
touch  with  you  to-night,  but  he  will  manage  it  somehow 
by  early  afternoon  to-morrow  .  .  .  What  say?  .  .  , 
Yes,  it  is  very  serious,  otherwise  he  would  hardly  have 
telegraphed  you  to  come  on  from  San  Francisco  .  .  . 
No,  personally,  I  don't  know.  That  was  his  message ; 
but  I  was  also  to  warn  you  on  no  account  to  leave  your 
rooms,  or  have  communication  with  anybody  until  you 
hear  direct  from  him.  .  .  .  No,  I  do  not  know  the 
particulars.  I  only  know  that  he  is  apparently  in  a 
hole,  and  a  bad  one,  and  that  he  is  now  afraid  that  you 
will  get  into  it  too.  .  .  .  Yes.  You  are  sure  you  fully 
understand?  .  .  .  No,  not  at  all!  I  am  only  too  glad. 
.  .  .  Good-night." 

Crang,  with  a  curious  smile  on  his  lips,  hung  up  the 
receiver.  He  turned  abruptly  to  Birdie. 

"You  get  a  taxi  to-morrow,"  he  said  brusquely. 
"We'll  want  it  for  two  or  three  hours.  Slip  the  chauf- 
feur whatever  is  necessary,  and  change  places  with 
him.  See?  You'll  know  where  to  find  one  that  will 
fall  for  that.  Then  you  come  here  for  me  at — let's 
see — the  boat  sails  at  four — you  come  here  at  half 
past  one  sharp.  Get  me?" 

"Sure!"  said  Birdie,  with  a  grin.    "That's  a  cinch  I" 

"All  right,  then  1"  Crang  waved  his  hand.  "Beat 
it!" 

Birdie  left  the  room.  A  moment  later  the  front 
door  closed  behind  him. 

Crang  picked  up  the  letter  and  examined  it  criti- 
cally. The  lower  three  or  four  inches  of  the  paper  was 
slightly  crinkled,  but  quite  dry  now;  the  body  of  the 


206  PAWNED 

original  letter  showed  no  sign  whatever  of  his  work 
upon  the  lower  portion. 

Doctor  Crang  nodded  contentedly. 

He  rose  abruptly,  secured  his  surgical  bag,  and  from 
it  selected  a  lance.  With  the  aid  of  a  ruler  and  the 
keen-bladed  little  instrument,  he  very  carefully  cut 
away  the  lower  section  of  the  paper.  The  slip  con- 
taining the  erstwhile  secret  message  he  tucked  away  in 
his  inside  pocket;  then  he  examined  the  letter  itself 
again  even  more  critically  than  before.  For  all  evi- 
dence that  it  presented  to  the  contrary,  it  might  have 
been  the  original  size  of  the  sheet.  There  was  even 
a  generous  margin  of  paper  still  left  beneath  John 
Bruce's  signature.  He  folded  the  letter,  replaced  it 
in  its  envelope — and  now  sealed  the  envelope. 

"To-morrow!"  said  Doctor  Sydney  Angus  Crang 
with  a  sinister  smile,  as  he  produced  a  hypodermic 
syringe  from  his  pocket  and  rolled  up  the  sleeve  of  his 
left  arm.  He  laughed  as  the  needle  pricked  his  flesh. 
"To-morrow — John  Bruce!" 

He  slumped  far  down  in  his  chair  once  more.  For 
half  an  hour  he  sat  motionless,  his  eyes  closed.  Then 
he  spoke  again. 

"Damn  you!"  he  said. 


—  XVII  — 

ALIAS  MR.  ANDERSON 

DOCTOR    Sydney    Angus    Crang    looked    at 
his  watch,    as  he  stepped   from   a  taxi   the 
next  afternoon,  and  entered  the  Bayne-Miloy 
Hotel.    It  was  fifteen  minutes  of  two.    He  approached 
the  desk  and  obtained  a  blank  card.    "From  J.  BM"  he 
wrote  upon  it.    He  handed  it  to  the  clerk. 

"Please  send  this  up  to  Mr.  R.  L.  Peters,"  he  re- 
quested. 

He  leaned  nonchalantly  against  the  desk  as  a  bell- 
boy departed  with  the  card.  From  where  he  stood  the 
front  windows  gave  him  a  view  of  the  street,  and  he 
could  see  Birdie  parking  the  taxi  a  little  way  up  past 
the  entrance.  He  smiled  pleasantly  as  he  waited. 

Presently  the  bell-boy  returned  with  the  information 
that  Mr.  Peters  would  see  him ;  and,  following  the  boy 
upstairs,  he  was  ushered  into  the  sitting  room  of  one 
of  the  Bayne-Miloy's  luxurious  suites.  A  tall  man  with 
a  thin,  swarthy  face  confronted  him.  Between  his 
fingers  the  tall  man  held  the  card  that  he,  Crang,  had 
sent  up;  and  between  his  lips  the  tall  man  sucked 
assiduously  at  a  quill  toothpick. 

"Mr.  Peters,  of  course?"  Crang  inquired  easily,  as 
the  door  closed  behind  the  bell-hoy. 

Mr.  Peters,  alias  Gilbert  Larmon,  nodded  quietly. 

"I  was  rather  expecting  Mr.  Bruce  in  person,"  he 
said. 

207 


208  PAWNED 

Crang  looked  cautiously  around  him. 

"It  still  isn't  safe,"  he  said  in  a  lowered  voice.  "At 
least,  not  here;  so  I  am,  going  to  take  you  to  him. 
But  perhaps  you  would  prefer  that  I  should  explain 
my  own  connection  with  this  affair  first?" 

Again  Larmon  nodded. 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  just  as  well,"  he  said. 

Once  more  Crang  looked  cautiously  around  him. 

"We — we  are  quite  alone,  I  take  it?" 

"Quite,"  said  Larmon. 

"My  name  is  Anderson,  William  Anderson,"  Crang 
stated  smoothly.  "I  was  the  one  who  telephoned  you 
last  night.  I  am  a  friend  of  John  Bruce — the  only  one 
he's  got,  I  guess,  except  yourself.  Bruce  and  I  used 
to  be  boys  together  in  San  Francisco.  I  hadn't  seen 
him  for  years  until  we  ran  into  each  other  here  in  New 
York  a  few  weeks  ago  and  chummed  up  again.  As  I 
told  you  over  the  phone,  I  don't  know  the  ins  and  outs 
of  this,  but  I  know  he  is  in  some  trouble  with  a  gang 
that  he  got  mixed  up  with  in  the  underworld  some- 
how." 

"Tckf"  The  quill  toothpick  flexed  sharply  against 
one  of  the  tall  man's  front  teeth.  "William  Ander- 
son"— he  repeated  the  name  musingly — "yes,  I  remem- 
ber. I  sent  a  telegram  in  your  care  to  Mr.  Bruce  a 
few  days  ago." 

"Yes,"  said  Crang. 

The  quill  toothpick  appeared  to  occupy  the  tall 
man's  full  attention  for  a  period  of  many  seconds. 

"Are  you  conversant  with  the  contents  of  that  tele- 
gram, Mr.  Anderson?"  he  asked  casually  at  last. 

Crang  suppressed  a  crafty  smile.  Mr  Gilbert 
Larmon  was  no  fool !  Mr.  Gilbert  Larmon  stood  here 


ALIAS  MR.  ANDERSON  209 

as  Mr.  R.  L.  Peters — the  telegram  had  been  signed: 
"Gilbert  Larmon."  The  question  that  Larmon  was 
actually  asking  was:  How  much  do  you  really  know? 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Crang  readily.  "I  did  not  actu- 
ally see  the  telegram,  but  Bruce  told  me  it  was  from 
a  friend  of  his,  a  Mr.  Peters,  who  would  arrive  in 
New  York  Wednesday  night,  and  whom  he  seemed  to 
think  he  needed  pretty  badly  in  his  present  scrape." 

Larmon  took  a  turn  or  two  up  and  down  the  room. 
He  halted  again  before  Crang. 

"I  am  obliged  to  admit  that  I  am  both  anxious  and 
considerably  at  sea,"  he  said  deliberately.  "There 
seems  to  be  an  air  of  mystery  surrounding  all  this  that 
I  neither  like  nor  understand.  You  did  not  allay  my 
fears  last  night  when  you  telephoned  me.  Have  you 
no  more  to  tell  me?" 

Crang  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"No,"  he  said.  "You've  got  everything  I  know. 
Bruce  has  been  like  a  clam  as  far  as  the  nature  of  what 
is  between  himself  and  this  gang  is  concerned.  He 
will  have  to  tell  you  himself — if  he  will.  He  won't 
tell  me.  Meanwhile,  he  sent  you  this." 

Crang  reached  into  his  pocket  and  took  out  the 
envelope  addressed  to  Mr.  R.  L.  Peters,  that  he  had 
taken  pains  to  seal  the  night  before. 

Larmon  took  the  envelope,  stepped  over  to  the  win- 
dow, presumably  for  better  light,  and  opening  the  let- 
ter, began  to  read  it. 

Crang  watched  the  other  furtively.  The  quill  tooth- 
pick, from  a  series  of  violent  gyrations,  became  mo- 
tionless between  Larmon's  lips.  The  thin  face  seemed 
to  mold  itself  into  sharp,  dogged  lines.  Again  and 
again  Larmon  appeared  to  read  the  letter  over;  and 


210  PAWNED 

then  the  hand  that  held  the  sheet  of  paper  dropped  to 
his  side,  and  he  stood  for  a  long  time  staring  out  of 
the  window.  Finally  he  turned  slowly  and  came  back 
across  the  room. 

"This  is  bad,  Mr.  Anderson — far  worse  than  I  had 
imagined,"  he  said  in  a  hard  voice.  "I  believe  you 
said  you  would  take  me  to  Bruce.  This  letter  asks  me 
to  accompany  you,  and  I  see  we  are  to  go  at  once." 
He  motioned  toward  a  box  of  cigars  on  the  table. 
"Help  yourself  to  a  cigar,  Mr.  Anderson,  and  take  a 
chair  while  I  change  and  get  ready.  I  will  only  be  a 
few  minutes,  if  you  will  excuse  me  for  that  length  of 
time?" 

Crang's  face  expressed  concern. 

"Why,  certainly,  Mr.  Peters,"  he  agreed  readily. 
He  helped  himself  to  a  cigar,  and  sat  down  in  a  chair. 
"I'm  sorry  if  it's  as  bad  as  that." 

Larmon  made  no  answer,  save  to  nod  his  head 
gravely  as  he  stepped  quickly  toward  the  door  of  the 
apartment's  adjoining  room. 

Crang  struck  a  match  and  lighted  his  cigar.  The 
door  of  the  connecting  room  closed  behind  Larmon. 
A  cloud  of  blue  smoke  veiled  Crang's  face — and  a  leer 
that  lighted  his  suddenly  narrowed  eyes. 

"So  that's  it,  is  it?"  grinned  Crang  to  himself.  "I 
wondered  how  he  was  going  to  work  it !  Well,  I  guess 
he  would  have  got  away  with  it,  too — if  I  hadn't  got 
away  with  it  first  I" 

He  sat  motionless  in  his  chair — and  listened.  And 
suddenly  he  smiled  maliciously.  The  sound  of  run- 
ning water  from  a  tap  turned  on  somewhere  on  the 
other  side  of  the  connecting  door  reached  him  faintly. 

"And  now  a  little  salt!"  murmured  Doctor  Sydney 


ALIAS  MR.  ANDERSON  211 

Angus  Crang.  He  blew  a  smoke  ring  into  the  air  and 
watched  it  dissolve.  "And,  presto! — like  the  smoke 
ring — nothing!" 

The  minutes  passed,  perhaps  five  of  them,  and  then 
the  door  opened  again  and  Larmon  reappeared. 

"I'm  ready  now,"  he  announced  quietly.  "Shall 
we  go?" 

Crang  rose  from  his  chair. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  He  glanced  at  Larmon,  as  he 
tapped  the  ash  from  the  end  of  his  cigar.  Larmon 
had  not  forgotten  to  change  his  clothes.  "I've  got  a 
taxi  waiting." 

"All  right,"  agreed  Larmon  briskly — and  led  the 
way  to  the  elevator. 

Out  on  the  street,  Crang  led  the  way  in  turn — to 
the  taxi.  Birdie  reached  out  from  his  seat,  and  flung 
the  door  open.  Crang  motioned  Larmon  to  enter,  and 
then  leaned  toward  Birdie  as  though  to  give  the  man 
the  necessary  address.  He  spoke  in  a  low,  quiet  tone : 

"Keep  to  the  decent  streets  as  long  as  you  can,  so 
that  he  won't  have  a  chance  to  get  leery  until  it  won't 
matter  whether  he  does  or  not.  Understand?" 

Birdie  touched  his  cap. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said. 

The  taxi  jerked  forward. 

"It's  not  very  far,"  said  Crang.  He  smiled 
engagingly  as  he  settled  back  in  his  seat — and  his  hand 
in  his  coat  pocket  sought  and  fondled  his  revolver. 

Larmon,  apparently  immersed  in  his  own  thoughts, 
made  no  immediate  reply.  The  taxi  traversed  a  dozen 
blocks,  during  which  time  Crang,  quite  contented  to  let 
well  enough  alone,  made  no  effort  at  conversation. 
Larmon  chewed  at  his  quill  toothpick  until,  following 


212  PAWNED 

a  savage  little  click,  he  removed  it  in  two  pieces  from 
his  mouth.  He  had  bitten  it  in  half.  He  tossed  the 
pieces  on  the  floor,  and  produced  a  fresh  one  from  his 
pocket. 

"My  word!"  observed  Crang  dryly.  "You've  got 
good  teeth." 

Larmon  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Anderson,  I  have !"  His  voice  was  level. 
"And  I  am  going  to  show  them — when  I  get  hold  of 
Bruce." 

Crang's  expression  was  instantly  one  of  innocent 
bewilderment. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "I  thought  you " 

"Have  you  ever  met  the  lady?"  Larmon  asked 
abruptly. 

"The — lady?"  Crang  glanced  out  of  the  window. 
Birdie  was  making  good  time,  very  good  time  indeed. 
Another  five  minutes  at  the  outside  and  the  trick  was 
done. 

"The  woman  in  the  case,"  said  Larmon. 

"Oh I"  Crang  whistled  low.  "I  see!  No,  I've 
never  met  her.  I  didn't  know  there  was  one.  I  told 
you  he  had  said  nothing  to  me." 

Larmon  was  frowning  heavily;  his  face  was  strained 
and  worried.  He  laughed  out  suddenly,  jerkily. 

"I  suppose  I  should  give  him  credit  for  keeping 
you  at  least  in  the  dark,"  he  said  shortly;  "though  it 
strikes  me  as  more  or  less  of  a  case  of  locking  the 
stable  door  after  the  horse  has  gone." 

Crang's  eyebrows  were  raised  in  well-simulated  per- 
plexity. 

"I  don't  quite  get  you,  Mr.  Peters,"  he  said  politely. 

"It's  of  no  consequence."    Larmon's  eyes  were  sud- 


ALIAS  MR.  ANDERSON  213 

denly  fastened  on  the  window.  From  an  already 
shabby  street  where  cheap  tenements  hived  a  polyglot 
nationality,  the  taxi  had  swerved  into  an  intersection 
that  seemed  more  a  lane  than  anything  else,  and  that 
was  still  more  shabby  and  uninviting.  "This  is  a 
rather  sordid  neighborhood,  isn't  it?"  he  observed 
curiously. 

"It's  safe,"  said  Crang  significantly. 

The  taxi  stopped. 

"We  get  out  here,  Mr.  Peters,"  Crang  announced 
pleasantly,  as  Birdie  opened  the  door.  "It's  a  bit 
rough,  I'll  admit;  but" — he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  smiled — "you'll  have  to  blame  Bruce,  not  me. 
Just  follow  me,  Mr.  Peters — it's  down  these  steps." 

He  began  to  descend  the  steps  of  a  cellar  entrance, 
which  was  unprepossessingly  black,  and  which  opened 
from  the  rear  of  a  seedy  looking  building  that  abutted 
on  the  lane.  He  did  not  look  behind  him.  Larmon 
had  made  sure  that  the  letter  was  to  be  relied  upon, 
hadn't  he? — and  it  was  John  Bruce,  not  anybody  else, 
that  Larmon  was  trusting  now.  Certainly,  it  was  much 
easier  to  lead  Larmon  as  long  as  Larmon  could  be 
led;  if  Larmon  hesitated  about  following,  Birdie  stood 
ready  to  pitch  the  other  headlong  down  the  step^-^the 
same  end  would  be  attained  in  either  case  I 

But  Larmon  still  showed  no  suspicion  of  the  good 
faith  of  one  William  Anderson.  He  was  following 
without  question.  The  daylight  streaking  down 
through  the  entrance  afforded  enough  light  to  enable 
Crang,  over  his  shoulder,  to  note  that  Larmon  was 
always  close  behind  him.  At  a  door  across  the  cellar 
Crang  gave  two  raps,  three  times  repeated,  and  as  the 
door  was  opened,  entered  with  Larmon  beside  him. 


214  PAWNED 

The  man  who  had  let  them  in — one  of  three,  who 
had  evidently  been  rolling  dice  at  a  table  close  to  the 
entrance — closed  the  door  behind  them,  and  resumed 
his  game. 

"If  you'll  just  wait  here  a  minute,  Mr.  Peters," 
Crang  said  breezily,  "I'll  find  Bruce  for  you." 

He  did  not  wait  for  a  reply.  It  mattered  very  little 
as  to  what  Larmon  said  or  did  now,  anyhow — 
Larmon's  exit  was  barred  by  three  men !  He  walked 
up  the  length  of  the  low-ceiled,  evil-smelling  place,  and 
with  a  key  which  he  took  from  his  pocket  unlocked  a 
door  at  the  farther  end.  As  he  stepped  through  the 
door  his  revolver  was  in  his  hand. 

He  laughed  in  an  ugly  way,  as  John  Bruce  rose  from 
the  mattress  and  faced  him. 

"Salt  is  a  great  thing,  isn't  it?"  he  jeered.  He  drew 
from  his  pocket  the  slip  of  paper  he  had  cut  from  the 
bottom  of  the  letter,  and  held  it  so  that  John  Bruce 
could  see  it.  Then  he  put  it  back  in  his  pocket  again. 
"Understand?  He  got  the  rest  of  the  letter,  all  right; 
and  so  he  has  come  down  to  pay  you  a  little  visit.  He's 
outside  there  now." 

John  Bruce  made  no  answer. 

Crang  laughed  again. 

"You  thought  you'd  double-cross  me,  did  you?  You 
poor  fool!  Well,  it's  a  showdown  now.  I'm  going 
to  bring  him  in  here — and  let  you  tell  him  what  he's 
up  against.  I  guess  you  can  convince  him.  He's  got 
less  than  an  hour  in  which  to  come  across — if  you  are 
going  to  sail  on  that  steamer.  If  you  don't  make  your- 
self useful  to  that  extent,  you  go  out — for  keeps ;  and 
Larmon  stays  here  until  he  antes  up — or  rots  I  Is  that 
quite  clear?" 


ALIAS  MR.  ANDERSON  215 

John  Bruce's  lips  scarcely  moved. 
"Yes;  it  is  quite  clear,"  he  said. 
"I   thought   it   would   be  I1'    snarled    Crang — and 
backed  out  through  the  door. 


—  XVIII  — 

THE  HOSTAGE 

AS  Crang  disappeared  through  the  doorway, 
John  Bruce  stepped  noiselessly  forward  across 
the  earthen  floor.  With  the  door  half  open 
and  swung  inward,  it  left  a  generous  aperture  at  the 
hinges  through  which  he  could  see  down  the  length  of 
the  cave-like  den  outside. 

He  was  strangely  calm.  Yes,  there  was  Larmon 
down  there — and  Crang  was  walking  toward  him. 
And  Crang  had  left  the  door  open  here.  Well,  why 
not? — -with  those  three  apaches  at  that  table  yonder! 
Yes,  why  not? — except  that  Crang  had  also  left  open 
the  way  to  one  last  move,  left  him,  John  Bruce,  one 
last  card  to  play! 

Strange,  the  cold,  unnatural  calmness  that  possessed 
him!  His  mind  seemed  instantaneously  to  have  con- 
ceived and  created  a  project  that  almost  subconsciously 
he  was  now  in  the  act  of  putting  into  effect.  He 
reached  out,  and  extracting  the  key  from  the  outside  of 
the  door,  inserted  it  on  the  inside  of  the  lock.  He 
smiled  grimly.  So  far,  it  was  quite  safe!  The  door 
was  swung  so  far  inward  that  the  inner  edge  of  it,  and 
therefore  his  act,  certainly  could  not  be  seen  by  any 
one  out  there. 

A  last  card!  His  lips  tightened.  Well,  perhaps! 
But  it  was  more  than  that.  His  unnatural  composure 

216 


THE  HOSTAGE  217 

had  something  deeper  than  that  behind  it — a  passion- 
ate fury  smoldering  on  the  verge  of  flame.  Larmon 
was  out  there — trapped !  He  could  not  put  Larmon  in 
greater  jeopardy  now,  no  matter  what  he,  John  Bruce, 
did  personally,  because  Larmon  dead  would  not  be 
worth  anything  to  them.  But  for  himself — to  stand 
and  take  it  all  like  a  sheep  at  the  hands  of  a  damned, 
cringing 

He  shook  his  head  in  quick,  curious  self-rebuke. 
Not  yet!  He  needed  that  cold  composure  a  little 
longer  since  it  was  to  be  a  showdown  now.  That  was 
what  Crang  had  said — a  showdown.  And  Crang  was 
right !  It  meant  the  end — one  way  or  the  other.  But 
with  luck,  if  Crang  was  as  yellow  as  he  believed  the 
man  to  be,  the  idea  of  the  bluff  that  had  leaped  into 
his  mind  would  work  successfully;  and  if  it  didn't 
work — well,  then,  there  was  the  end — and  at  least  it 
would  not  be  a  scatheless  one  for  Crang  1 

The  mind  works  swiftly.  Had  Crang  had  time  only 
to  walk  down  half  the  length  of  that  room  out  there 
toward  Larmon?  Yes,  he  saw  Crang  halt  now,  and 
heard  Crang  call  out  sharply  to  the  three  men  at  the 
table : 

"See  if  he's  got  a  gunl" 

John  Bruce,  through  the  crack,  saw  Larmon  whirl 
around  suddenly,  as  though  aware  for  the  first  time 
that  he  was  in  danger;  saw  two  of  the  men  grasp 
Larmon  roughly,  while  the  third  searched  through  his 
clothes. 

And  then  Crang  laughed  out  raucously: 

"This  way,  Mr.  Peters — please  I  You  three  can 
stay  where  you  are — I'll  call  you  if  I  need  you!" 

For    still    another    instant    John    Bruce    watched 


2i8  PAWNED 

through  the  crack.  Larmon,  though  his  face  was  set 
and  stern,  advanced  calmly  to  where  Crang  stood. 
Crang,  with  a  prod  of  his  revolver,  pushed  him 
onward.  They  were  coming  now — Larmon  first,  and 
Crang  immediately  behind  the  other.  Without  a 
sound,  John  Bruce  slipped  around  to  the  other  side 
of  the  door;  and,  back  just  far  enough  so  that  he  would 
not  be  seen  the  instant  the  threshold  was  reached, 
crouched  down  close  against  the  wall. 

A  second  passed. 

"Go  on  in  there!"  he  heard  Crang  order. 

Larmon's  form  crossed  the  threshold;  and  then 
Crang's — and  John  Bruce  hurled  himself  forward, 
striking,  even  while  his  hands  flew  upward  to  lock 
like  a  vise  around  Crang's  throat,  a  lightning  blow  at 
Crang's  wrist  that  sent  the  revolver  to  the  soft 
earthen  floor  without  a  sound — and  a  low,  strangling, 
gurgling  noise  was  alone  the  result  of  Crang's  effort 
at  a  shout  of  alarm. 

"Shut  the  door — quietly!  And  lock  it,  Larmonl" 
John  Bruce  flung  out. 

It  was  an  impotent  thing.  It  struck  at  the  air  blindly, 
its  fists  going  like  disjointed  flails.  Strong!  He  had 
not  just  risen  from  a  sick  bed  this  time !  John  Bruce 
and  the  soul  within  him  seemed  to  chuckle  in  unison 
together  at  this  wriggling  thing  that  he  held  up  by  the 
neck  with  its  feet  off  the  ground.  But  he  saw  Larmon, 
though  t'or  the  fraction  of  a  second  held  spellbound  in 
amazement,  spring  and  lock  the  door. 

"If  you  make  a  sound  that  reaches  out  there" — John 
Bruce  was  whispering  now  with  panting,  labored 
breath,  as  he  swung  Crang  over  to  the  corner  and 
forced  him  down  upon  the  mattress — "it  will  take  too 


THE  HOSTAGE  219 

long  to  break  that  door  in  to  be  of  any  use  to  you ! 
Understand?" 

"Bruce!" 

It  was  Larmon  standing  over  them.  John  Bruce 
scarcely  turned  his  head.  His  hands  were  still  on 
Crang's  throat,  though  the  man  lay  cowed  and  passive 
now. 

"His  inside  coat  pocket!"  John  Bruce  jerked  out. 
"It  will  save  a  lot  of  explanation." 

Larmon  leaned  over  and  thrust  his  hand  into  Crang's 
pocket.  He  produced  several  envelopes  and  the  slip 
of  paper  cut  from  John  Bruce's  letter. 

"Read  the  slip!"  said  John  Bruce  grimly.  "He 
showed  it  to  me  a  minute  ago  when  he  came  in  to  tell 
me  you  were  here.  It  was  written  in  our  invisible  ink 
at  the  bottom  of  the  letter  he  brought  you."  He 
laughed  shortly.  "When  you've  read  it,  I'll  introduce 
you." 

Larmon  read  the  slip  hurriedly. 

"Good  God!"  he  cried  out. 

"This  is  Crang,"  said  John  Bruce  evenly. 

"But" — Larmon's  face  was  tense  and  strained — 
"how " 

"How  did  he  discover  there  was  anything  there  to 
begin  with,  and  then  hit  on  the  salt  solution?"  John 
Bruce  interrupted.  "I  don't  know.  We'll  find  out." 
He  relaxed  his  hold  a  little  on  Crang's  throat,  and 
taking  the  slip  of  paper  from  Larmon,  thrust  it  into 
his  own  pocket.  "Go  on,  Crang!  Tell  us!" 

Crang's  eyes  roved  from  John  Bruce  to  Larmon  and 
back  to  John  Bruce  again.  His  face  was  ashen.  He 
shook  his  head. 

"You'll  talk!"  said  John  Bruce  with  ominous  quiet. 


220  PAWNED 

"And  the  less  urging" — his  grip  began  to  tighten  again 
— "the  better  for  you." 

"Wait!"  Crang  choked.  "Yes— I— I'll  tell  you.  I 
showed  the  letter  to  Claire.  She — she  cried  on  it.  A 
tear  splash — black  letter  began  to  appear.  I  took  the 
letter  home,  and — trace  of  salt  in  tears — and " 

Crang's  voice  died  away  in  a  strangling  cry.  Claire ! 
John  Bruce  had  barely  caught  any  other  word  but  that. 
Claire!  The  face  beneath  him  began  to  grow  livid. 
Claire !  So  the  devil  had  brought  Claire  into  this,  too. 
Too!  Yes,  there  was  something  else.  Something 
else !  He  remembered  now.  There  was  a  reckoning 
to  come  that  was  beyond  all  other  reckonings,  wasn't 
there?  He  would  know  now  what  hold  this  thing,  that 
was  beast,  not  man,  had  upon  her.  He  would  know 
now — or  it  would  end  now ! 

"Claire!  D'ye  hear?"  John  Bruce  whispered 
hoarsely.  "You  know  what  I  mean!  What  trick  of 
hell  did  you  play  to  make  her  promise  to  marry  you? 
Answer  me!" 

The  thing  on  the  mattress  moaned. 

wBruce!  For  God's  sake,  Bruce,  what  are  you 
doing?"  Larmon  cried  out  sharply. 

John  Bruce  raised  his  head  and  snarled  at  Larmon. 
Neither  Larmon,  nor  any  other  man,  would  rob  him 
of  this  now! 

"You  stand  aside,  Larmon !"  he  rasped  out.  "This 
is  between  me  and  Crang.  Keep  out  of  the  way !" 

He  shook  at  Crang  again.  He  laughed.  The  man's 
head  bobbed  limply. 

"Answer  me!"  He  loosened  his  grip  suddenly. 
Queer,  he  had  forgotten  that — Crang  couldn't  speak, 
of  course,  if  he  wouldn't  let  him! 


THE  HOSTAGE  221 

The  man  gasped,  and  gasped  again,  for  his  breath. 

"I  give  you  one  second."  John  Bruce's  lips  did  not 
move  as  he  spoke. 

Twice  Crang  tried  to  speak. 

"Quick!"  John  Bruce  planted  his  knees  on  the 
other's  chest. 

"Yes — yes,  yes,  yes!"  Crang  gurgled  out.  "It's 
you — the  night  you — you  were  stabbed.  You  were — 
were  nearly  gone.  I — I  gave  her  the — the  choice — 
to  marry  me,  or — or  I'd  let  you — go  out." 

John  Bruce  felt  his  shoulders  surge  forward,  felt 
his  muscles  grow  taut  as  steel,  and  he  shook  at  some- 
thing flabby  that  made  no  resistance,  and  his  knees' 
rocked  upon  something  soft  where  they  were  bedded. 
For  him — Claire  had  faced  that  inhuman  choice,  born 
in  this  monster's  brain — to  save  his  life!  Madness 
seized  upon  him.  The  room,  everything  before  him 
whirled  around  in  great,  red,  pulsing  circles.  A  fury 
that  shook  at  the  roots  of  his  soul  took  possession  of 
him.  He  knew  nothing,  saw  nothing,  was  moved  by 
nothing  save  an  overwhelming  lust  for  vengeance  that 
seemed  to  give  him  superhuman  strength,  that  enabled 
him  to  crush  between  his  two  bare  hands  this  nauseous 
thing  that 

He  heard  a  voice.  It  seemed  to  come  from  some 
infinite  distance: 

"You  are  killing  the  man!  In  the  name  of  God, 
John  Bruce,  come  away!" 

It  was  Larmon's  voice.  He  looked  up.  He  was 
vaguely  conscious  that  it  was  Larmon  who  was  pulling 
at  his  shoulders,  wrenching  madly  at  his  hands,  but  he 
could  not  see  Larmon — only  a  blurred  red  figure  that 
danced  insanely  up  and  down.  Killing  the  man!  Of 


222  PAWNED 

course !  What  an  inane  thing  to  say !  Then  he  felt 
his  hands  suddenly  torn  away  from  a  hold  they  had  had 
upon  something,  and  he  felt  himself  pulled  to  his  feet. 
And  then  for  a  little  he  stood  swaying  unsteadily,  and 
he  shuddered,  then  he  groped  his  way  over  to  the  chair 
by  the  table  and  dropped  into  it. 

He  stared  in  front  of  him.  Something  on  the  floor 
near  the  door  glittered  and  reflected  the  light  from 
the  single,  dim  incandescent.  He  lurched  up  from  the 
chair,  and  going  toward  the  object,  snatched  it  up. 
It  was  Crang's  revolver — but  Larmon  was  upon  him 
in  an  instant. 

"Not  that  way,  either!"  said  Larmon  hoarsely. 

John  Bruce  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes. 

"No,  not  that  way,  either,"  he  repeated  like  a  child. 

He  went  back  to  the  chair  and  sat  down.  He  was 
aware  that  Larmon  was  kneeling  beside  the  mattress, 
but  he  paid  no  attention  to  the  other. 

"The  man's  unconscious,"  Larmon  said. 

John  Bruce  did  not  turn  his  head. 

The  minutes  passed. 

John  Brace's  brain  began  to  clear;  but  the  unbal- 
anced fury  that  had  possessed  him  was  giving  place 
now  only  to  one  more  implacable  in  its  considered 
phase.  He  looked  around  him.  Crang,  evidently 
recovered,  was  sitting  up  on  the  mattress.  The  letters 
Larmon  had  taken  from  Crang's  pocket  lay  on  the 
table.  John  Bruce  picked  them  up  idly.  From  one  of 
them  a  steamer  ticket  fell  out.  He  stared  at  this  for 
a  moment.  A  passage  for  John  Bruce  to  South 
America !  Then  low,  an  ugly  sound,  his  laugh  echoed 
around  the  place. 

South  America!     It  recalled  him  to  his  actual  sur- 


THE  HOSTAGE  223 

roundings — that  on  the  other  side  of  the  door  were 
Crang's  apaches.  There  was  still  time  to  catch  the 
steamer,  wasn't  there — for  South  America?  "If  the 
bluff  worked" — he  remembered  his  thoughts,  the  plan 
that  had  actuated  him  when  he  had  crouched  there  at 
the  door,  waiting  for  Crang  to  enter.  Strange!  It 
wouldn't  be  a  bluff  any  more !  All  that  was  gone. 
What  he  would  do  now,  and  carry  it  through  to  its 
end,  was  what  he  had  intended  to  bluff  Crang  into 
believing  he  would  do.  And  Crang,  too,  would  under- 
stand now  how  little  of  bluff  there  was — or,  misunder- 
standing, pay  for  it  with  his  life. 

He  thrust  the  ticket  suddenly  into  his  pocket, 
stepped  from  his  chair,  the  revolver  in  his  hand,  and 
confronted  Crang.  The  man  shrank  back,  trembling, 
his  face  gray  with  fear. 

"Stand  up!"  John  Bruce  commanded. 

Crang,  groveling  against  the  wall,  got  upon  his  feet. 

It  was  a  full  minute  before  John  Bruce  spoke  again, 
and  then  the  words  came  choking  hot  from  his  lips. 

"You  damned  cur !"  he  cried.  "That's  what  you  did, 
was  it?  The  price  Claire  paid  was  for  my  life.  Well, 
it's  hers,  then;  it's  no  longer  mine.  Can  you  under- 
stand that,  and  understand  that  I  am  going  to  pay  it 
back,  if  necessary,  to  rid  her  of  you?  We  are  going 
to  walk  out  of  here.  You  will  lead  the  way.  We  are 
going  down  to  that  steamer,  and  you  are  going  on  John 
Bruce's  ticket  where  you  proposed  to  send  me — to 
South  America.  Either  that — or  you  are  going  on  a 
longer  journey.  I  shall  carry  this  revolver  in  the 
pocket  of  my  coat,  and  walk  beside  you.  It  is  your 
affair  how  we  pass  those  men  out  there.  If  you  make 
any  attempt  at  trickery  in  getting  out  of  here,  or  later 


224  PAWNED 

in  the  street  attempt  to  escape,  I  will  fire  instantly. 
It  does  not  matter  in  the  slightest  degree  what  happens 
to  me  at  the  hands  of  your  men,  or  at  the  hands  of  a 
thousand  people  in  the  most  crowded  street.  You  will 
have  gone  out  first.  The  only  consideration  that 
exists  is  that  Claire  shall  be  free  of  you." 

"Tckf"  It  was  the  quill  toothpick  flexing  against 
one  of  Larmon's  teeth. 

John  Bruce  turned. 

"I  did  not  understand,"  said  Larmon  in  a  low,  grim 
way.  "If  I  had,  I  am  not  sure  I  should  have  stopped 
you  from  throttling  him  when  I  did." 

John  Bruce  nodded  curtly.  He  spoke  again  to 
Crang. 

"I  am  not  asking  you  whether  you  agree  to  this  or 
not,"  he  said  with  level  emphasis.  "You  have  your 
choice  at  any  moment  to  do  as  you  like — you  know  the 
consequences."  He  slipped  his  hand  with  his  revolver 
into  the  right-hand  side  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  took 
his  place  at  Crang's  left  side.  "Now,  go  ahead  and 
open  that  door,  and  lead  the  way  out!  Mr.  Larmon, 
you  follow  close  behind  me." 

"Yes,"  Crang  stammered,  "yes — for  God's  sake — 
I— I'll  do  jit— I " 

"Open  that  door!"  said  John  Bruce  monotonously. 
"I  didn't  ask  you  to  talk  about  it!" 

Crang  opened  the  door.  The  little  procession 
stepped  out  into  the  long,  low  cellar,  and  started  down 
toward  the  lower  end.  The  three  men,  from  playing 
dice  at  the  table  near  the  door,  rose  uncertainly  to 
their  feet.  John  Bruce's  revolver  in  his  pocket  pressed 
suggestively  against  Crang's  side. 


THE  HOSTAGE  125 

"It's  all  right,  boys,"  Crang  called  out.  "Open  the 
door.  "I've  got  Birdie  outside." 

They  passed  the  table,  passed  through  the  doorway, 
and  the  door  closed  behind  them.  In  the  semi-dark- 
ness here,  as  they  headed  for  the  exit  to  the  lane, 
Larmon  touched  John  Bruce's  elbow. 

"He  brought  me  down  here  in  a  taxi,"  Larmon 
whispered.  "I  suppose  now  it  was  one  of  his  men 
who  drove  it." 

"Birdie,  he  just  told  those  rats,"  said  John  Bruce 
tersely.  "Do  you  hear,  Crang?  If  he's  still  out  there, 
send  him  away!" 

They  emerged  into  the  lane.  A  taxi<ab  stood  oppo- 
site the  exit;  Birdie  lounged  in  the  driver's  seat. 

John  Bruce's  revolver  bored  into  Crang's  side. 

"Beat  it!"  said  Crang  surlily  to  the  man.  "I  won't 
want  you  any  more." 

"You  won't — what?"  Birdie  leaned  out  from  his 
seat.  He  stared  for  a  moment  in  bewilderment,  and 
then  started  to  climb  out  of  the  taxi. 

The  pressure  of  John  Bruce's  revolver  increased 
steadily. 

"Damn  it,  you  fool!"  Crang  screamed  out  wildly. 
"Beat  it!  Do  you  hear?  Beat  it!" 

Birdie's  face  darkened. 

"Oh — sure!"  he  muttered,  with  a  disgruntled  oath. 
He  shot  the  gears  into  place  with  a  vicious  snap. 
"Sure — anything  you  say!"  The  taxi  roared  down  the 
lane,  and  disappeared  around  the  corner  in  a  volley 
of  exhausts. 

"Go  on!"  John  Bruce  ordered. 

At  the  corner  of  the  lane  John  Bruce  turned  to 
Larmon. 


226  PAWNED 

"You  are  safe,  and  out  of  it  now,"  he  said.  "I  am 
going  to  ask  you  to  step  into  the  first  store  we  pass 
and  get  me  some  good  light  rope,  but  after  that  I  think 
you  had  better  leave  us.  If  anything  happened 
between  here  and  the  steamer,  or  on  the  steamer,  you 
would  be  implicated." 

"Tckf"  It  was  the  quill  toothpick  again.  "I'll  get 
the  rope  with  pleasure,"  Larmon  said  calmly;  "but  I 
never  lay  down  a  good  hand.  I  am  going  to  the 
steamer." 

John  Bruce  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Larmon  some- 
how seemed  an  abstract  consideration  at  the  moment 
— but  Larmon  had  had  his  chance. 

"What  time  does  the  steamer  sail,  Crang?"  John 
Bruce  bit  off  his  words,  as  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Four  o'clock,"  Crang  mumbled. 

"Walk  faster!" 

They  stopped  for  a  moment  in  front  of  a  store. 
Larmon  entered,  and  came  out  again  almost  imme- 
diately with  a  package  under  his  arm. 

A  block  farther  on  John  Bruce  hailed  a  passing  taxi. 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  pushing  through  the  throng 
on  the  dock,  John  Bruce  produced  the  ticket,  they 
mounted  the  gangway,  and  a  steward  led  them  to  a 
stateroom  on  one  of  the  lower  decks. 

John  Bruce  closed  the  door  and  locked  it.  His 
revolver  was  in  his  hand  now. 

"There  isn't  much  time  left,"  he  said  coldly.  "About 
ten  minutes." 

At  the  end  of  five,  Crang,  bound  hand  and  foot,  and 
gagged,  lay  lashed  into  his  bunk. 

A  bugle  sounded  the  "All  Ashore  I" 

John  Bruce  tossed  the  ticket  on  the  couch. 


THE  HOSTAGE  227 

"There's  your  ticket!"  he  said  sternly.  "I 
wouldn't  advise  you  to  come  back — nor  worry  any 
further  about  exposing  Mr.  Larmon,  unless  you  want 
to  force  a  showdown  that  will  place  some  very  inter- 
esting details  connected  with  the  life  of  Doctor  Crang 
in  the  hands  of  the  police  I" 

The  bugle  rang  out  again. 

John  Bruce,  without  a  further  glance  in  Crang's 
direction,  opened  the  cabin  window  slightly,  then 
unlocking  the  door,  he  motioned  Larmon  to  pass  out. 
He  locked  the  door  on  the  outside,  stepped  to  the 
deck,  tossed  the  key  through  the  window  to  the  floor 
of  Crang's  cabin,  and  drew  the  window  shut  again. 
A  minute  more,  and  with  Larmon  beside  him,  he  was 
standing  on  the  dock. 

Neither  John  Bruce  nor  Larmon  spoke. 

And  presently  the  tugs  caught  hold  of  the  big  liner 
and  warped  her  out  of  her  berth. 

"John  Bruce"  had  sailed  for  South  America. 


—  XIX  — 

CABIN  H-I4 

FOR  a  time,  Crang  lay  passive.  Fear  was  domi- 
nant. He  could  move  his  head  a  little,  and  he 
kept  screwing  it  around  to  cast  furtive  glances 
at  the  cabin  door.  He  was  sure  that  Bruce  was  still 
outside  there,  or  somewhere  near — Bruce  wouldn't 
leave  the  ship  until  the  last  moment,  and  .  .  . 

The  craven  soul  of  the  man  shrivelled  within  him. 
Bruce's  eyes!  Damn  Bruce's  eyes,  and  that  hideous 
touch  of  Bruce's  pocketed  revolver!  The  fool  would 
even  have  killed  him  back  there  in  the  cellar  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  Larmon!  He  could  still  feel  those 
strangling  fingers  at  his  throat. 

Mechanically  he  made  to  lift  his  hand  to  touch  the 
bruised  and  swollen  flesh — but  he  could  not  move  his 
hands  because  they  were  bound  behind  his  back  and 
beneath  him.  The  fool!  The  fool  had  wanted  to 
shoot.  Perhaps  with  Larmon  out  of  the  road,  and  just 
at  the  last  minute,  that  was  what  he  still  meant  to  do 
— to  open  the  door  there,  and — and  kill.  Terror 
swept  upon  him.  He  tried  to  scream — but  a  gag  was 
in  his  mouth. 

What  was  that?  He  felt  a  slight  jar,  another,  and 
another.  He  listened  intently.  He  heard  a  steady 
throbbing  sound.  The  ship  was  moving — moving! 
That  meant  that  Bruce  was  ashore — that  he  need  not 

228 


CABIN  H-I4  229 

fear  that  door  there.  He  snarled  to  himself,  suddenly 
arrogant  with  courage.  To  the  devil's  pit  with  John 
Bruce ! 

He  began  to  work  at  his  bonds  now — at  first  with 
a  measure  of  contained  persistence;  and  then,  a»  he 
made  no  progress,  angry  impatience  came,  and  he 
began  to  struggle.  He  tossed  now,  and  twisted  him- 
self about  on  the  bunk,  and  strained  with  all  his  might. 
The  gag  choked  him.  The  bonds  but  grew  the  tighter 
and  cut  into  his  wrists.  He  became  a  madman  in  his 
frenzy.  Passion  and  fury  lashed  him  on  and  on.  He 
flogged  himself  into  effort  beyond  physical  endurance 
— and  finally  collapsed  through  utter  exhaustion,  a 
limp  thing  bathed  in  sweat. 

Then  he  began  the  struggle  again,  and  after  that 
again.  The  periods  came  in  cycles  .  .  .  the  insensate 
fury  .  .  .  exhaustion  .  .  .  recuperation  .  .  . 

After  a  time  he  no  longer  heard  the  throbbing  of 
the  engines  or  the  movement  of  the  ship  during  those 
moments  when  he  lay  passive  in  weakness,  nor  did  the 
desire  for  freedom,  for  merely  freedom's  sake,  any 
longer  actuate  him;  instead,  beneath  him,  in  his  pocket, 
he  had  felt  the  little  case  that  held  his  hypodermic 
syringe,  and  it  had  brought  the  craving  for  the  drug. 
And  the  craving  grew.  It  grew  until  it  became  torture, 
and  to  satisfy  it  became  the  one  incentive  that  pos- 
sessed him.  It  tormented,  it  mocked  him.  He  could 
feel  it  there  in  his  pocket,  always  there  in  his  pocket. 
Hell  could  not  keep  him  from  it.  He  blasphemed  at 
the  ropes  that  kept  it  from  his  fingers'  reach,  and  he 
wrenched  and  tore  at  them,  and  sobbed  and  snarled — 
and  after  long  minutes  of  maniacal  struggle  would 


23o  PAWNED 

again  lie  trembling,  drained  of  the  power  either  to 
move  or  think. 

It  grew  dark  in  the  cabin. 

And  now,  in  one  of  his  series  of  struggles,  some- 
thing snapped  beneath  him — a  cord !  One  of  the  cords 
around  his  wrists  had  given  away.  He  tore  one  hand 
free.  Yes,  yes — he  could  reach  his  pocket!  Ha,  ha 
— his  pocket!  And  now  his  other  hand  was  free.  He 
snatched  at  the  hypodermic  syringe  with  feverish 
greed — and  the  plunger  went  home  as  the  needle 
pricked  its  way  beneath  the  skin  of  his  forearm. 

He  reached  up  then,  unloosened  the  knots  at  the 
back  of  his  head,  and  spat  the  gag 'from  his  mouth. 
His  penknife  freed  his  legs.  He  stood  up — tottered — 
and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  his  bunk.  He  remained 
motionless  for  a  few  minutes.  The  drug  steadied  him. 

He  looked  around  him.  It  was  dark.  The  ship 
was  very  still;  there  was  no  sense  of  movement,  none 
of  vibration  from  the  engines.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
in  a  hazy,  vague  way  he  had  noticed  that  fact  a  long 
time  ago.  But,  nevertheless,  it  was  very  curious! 

He  stood  up  again.  This  was  better!  He  felt 
secure  enough  now  on  his  feet.  It  was  only  as -though 
a  great  fatigue  were  upon  him,  and  that  he  seemed  to 
be  weighted  down  with  lead — nothing  more  than  that. 
He  crossed  to  the  window,  drew  the  shade,  and  opened 
the  window  itself. 

And  then,  for  a  long  time,  puzzled,  his  brows  drawn 
together,  he  stood  there  staring  out.  Close  at  hand, 
though  but  faintly  outlined  in  the  darkness,  he  could 
see  the  shore.  And  it  was  not  imagination,  for  beyond 
the  shore  line  he  could  see  innumerable  little  lights 
twinkling. 


CABIN  H-I4  231 

It  was  strange !  He  rubbed  his  eyes.  Here  was 
something  else!  The  window  opened  on  a  narrow, 
dimly  lighted  and  deserted  deck — one  of  the  lower 
decks,  he  remembered.  Below  this  deck,  and  evi- 
dently alongside  of  the  steamer's  hull,  he  could  make 
out  the  upper-structure  of  some  small  vessel. 

A  figure  came  along  the  deck  now  from  the  forward 
end — one  of  the  crew,  Crang  could  see  from  the  other's 
dress,  as  the  man  drew  nearer.  Crang  thrust  his  head 
out  of  the  window. 

"I  say,  look  here!"  he  called,  as  the  other  came 
opposite  to  him.  "What's  all  this  about?  Where  are 
we?" 

"Down  the  bay  a  bit,  that's  all,  sir,"  the  man 
answered.  "We've  had  some  engine  trouble." 

Crang  pointed  to  the  small  vessel  alongside.  A 
sudden,  wild  elation  surged  upon  him. 

"That's  a  tug  down  there,  isn't  it?"  he  said. 
"They're  going  to  tow  us  back,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  the  man  replied.  "It's  the  company's 
tug,  all  right,  that  they  sent  down  to  us,  but  she'll  be 
going  back  as  soon  as  we're  off  again.  It's  nothin' 
serious,  and  we  won't  be  more'n  another  hour,  sir." 

Crang  snarled  under  his  breath. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir?"  inquired  the  man. 

"Nothing!"  said  Crang.  "I'm  much  obliged  to 
you." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  man,  and  went  on  along 
the  deck. 

Crang  returned  to  his  bunk  and  sat  down  again  on 
its  edge.  He  could  still  see  the  reflection  of  the  shore 
lights.  This  seemed  to  obsess  him.  He  kept  staring 
out  through  the  window.  Suddenly  he  chuckled 


23  2  PAWNED 

hoarsely — and  then,  as  suddenly,  his  fist  clenched  and 
he  shook  it  in  the  air. 

"Another  hour,  eh?"  he  muttered.  "Then,  I'll  get 
you  yet,  Bruce — ha,  ha,  I'll  get  you  yet!  But  I'll  make 
sure  of  Claire  first  this  time!  That's  where  I  made 
the  mistake — but  Doctor  Sydney  Angus  Crang  doesn't 
make  two  mistakes  alike!" 

He  relapsed  into  silent  meditation.  At  the  end  of 
five  minutes  he  spoke  again. 

"I'm  a  clever  man,"  said  Doctor  Crang  between  his 
teeth.  "First  Claire — then  you,  Bruce.  And  I'll  take 
good  care  that  you  know  nothing,  Mr.  John  Bruce — 
not  this  time — not  until  it  is  too  late — both  ways! 
I'll  show  you!  I'll  teach  you  to  pit  your  clumsy  wits 
against  me!" 

He  got  up  from  the  bunk  and  turned  on  a  single 
incandescent  light.  Bruce  had  thrown  the  key  in 
through  the  window,  he  remembered.  Yes,  there  it 
was  on  the  floor!  He  picked  it  up;  and  quickly  and 
methodically  he  began  to  work  now.  He  gathered 
together  the  pieces  of  rope  with  which  he  had  been 
bound,  tucked  them  under  his  coat,  and  running  to  the 
window,  thrust  his  head  outside  again.  The  deck  was 
clear,  there  was  not  a  soul  in  sight.  He  unlocked  the 
door  now,  stepped  noiselessly  out  on  the  deck,  dropped 
the  pieces  of  rope  overboard,  and  then,  returning  to 
the  cabin,  smiled  ironically  as  he  made  a  mental  note 
of  the  number  on  the  cabin  door. 

"H-I4,"  observed  Doctor  Crang  grimly.  "Quite 
so— H-I41" 

He  halted  before  the  mirror  and  removed  the  more 
flagrant  traces  of  his  dishevelled  appearance;  then  he 


CABIN  H-i4  233 

took  off  his  coat,  flung  it  on  a  chair,  pushed  the  electric 
button,  and  returned  to  his  bunk. 

He  was  sitting  up  on  the  edge  of  the  bunk,  and 
yawning,  as  the  steward  answered  his  summons. 

"Hello,  steward!"  said  Crang  somewhat  thickly. 
"I  guess  I've  overslept  myself.  Overdid  the  send-off 
a  little,  I'm  afraid.  What  are  we  stopping  for?" 

"A  little  engine  trouble,  sir,"  the  steward  answered. 
"It  was  right  after  we  started.  We're  only  a  little  way 
down  the  bay.  But  it's  all  right,  sir.  Nothing  serious. 
We'll  be  off  again  shortly." 

"Humph!"  Crang  dismissed  the  subject  with  a 
grunt.  "I  suppose  I've  missed  my  dinner,  eh?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  replied  the  steward.  "It's  only  just 
a  little  after  seven  now,  sir." 

"That's  better!"  smiled  Crang.  "Well,  get  my 
traps  right  up  here,  like  a  good  fellow,  and  I'll  clean 
up  a  bit.  And  hurry,  will  you?" 

The  steward  looked  a  little  blank. 

"Your  traps,  sir?" 

"Luggage — traps — baggage,"  defined  Crang  with 
facetious  terseness. 

"Oh,  I  knew  what  you  meant,  sir,"  said  the  stew- 
ard. "It's  where  your  traps  are,  sir?  I — I  thought 
it  a  bit  strange  you  didn't  have  anything  with  you  when 
you  came  aboard  this  afternoon." 

"Did  you,  now?"  inquired  Crang  sweetly.  "Well, 
then,  the  sooner  you  get  them  here  the  less  strange  it 
will  seem.  Beat  it!" 

"But  where  are  they,  sir?"  persisted  the  man. 

"Where  are  they?  Good  God,  how  do  I  know!" 
ejaculated  Crang  sarcastically.  "I  sent  them  down  to 
the  ship  early  this  morning  to  be  put  aboard — in  your 


234  PAWNED 

baggage  room.  You've  got  a  baggage  room  aboard, 
haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  sir;  but " 

"I  would  suggest  the  baggage  room,  then!"  inter- 
rupted Crang  crisply.  "And  if  they  are  not  there,  ask 
the  captain  to  let  you  have  any  of  the  crew  who  aren't 
too  busy  on  this  engine  trouble,  and  get  them  to  help 
you  search  the  ship!" 

The  steward  grinned. 

"Very  good,  sir.  Would  you  mind  describing  the 
pieces?" 

"There  are  four,"  said  Crang  with  exaggerated 
patience,  as  he  created  the  non-existent  baggage  out  of 
his  imagination.  "And  they  have  all  got  your 
'wanted  on  the  voyage'  labels,  with  my  name  and  cabin 
written  on  them — Mr.  John  Bruce;  Cabin  H-I4- 
There  is  a  steamer  trunk,  and  two  brown  alligator- 
leather — which  I  do  not  guarantee  to  be  genuine  in 
spite  of  the  price — suit-cases,  and  a  hat  box." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  the  steward  again — and  hur- 
ried from  the  cabin. 

Crang  got  up  and  went  to  the  window.  The  tug 
alongside  seemed  to  furnish  him  with  engrossing 
reflections,  for  he  stood  there,  smiling  queerly,  until 
he  swung  around  in  answer  to  a  knock  upon  his  door. 

A  man  in  ship's  uniform  entered  ahead  of  the 
steward. 

"The  steward  here,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "was  speak- 
ing about  your  baggage." 

"Speaking  about  it!"  murmured  Crang  helplessly. 
"I  told  him  to  get  it." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man;  "but  I  am  sorry  to  say 
that  no  such  baggage  as  you  describe  has  come  aboard 


CABIN  H-i4  235 

the  ship.  There  has  been  no  baggage  at  all  for  Mr. 
Bruce,  sir." 

"Not  aboard!"  gasped  Crang.  "Then — then  where 
is  it?" 

"I  can't  say,  sir,  of  course,"  said  the  other  sympa- 
thetically. "I  am  only  stating  a  fact  to  you." 

"But — but  I  sent  it  down  to  the  dock  early  this 
morning."  Crang's  voice  was  rising  in  well-affected 
excitement.  "It  must  be  here !  I  tell  you,  it  must  be 
here!" 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"It's  my  job,  sir.  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Bruce,  but  I  know 
positively  your  baggage  is  not  aboard  this  ship." 

"Then  what's  to  be  done?"  Crang's  voice  rose 
louder.  "You've  left  it  on  the  dock,  that's  what — 
fools,  thundering  idots!" 

The  man  with  the  baggage  job  looked  uncomfort- 
able. 

Crang  danced  up  and  down  on  the  floor  of  the  cabin. 

"On  the  way  to  South  America  to  stay  six  months," 
he  yelled  insanely,  "and  my  baggage  left  behind!  I 
can't  go  on  without  my  baggage,  do  you  hear?" 

There  was  a  whispered  conference  between  the  two 
men.  The  steward  vanished  through  the  doorway. 

"I've  sent  for  the  purser,  sir,"  volunteered  the 
other. 

Crang  stormed  up  and  down  the  floor. 

Presently  the  purser  appeared.  Crang  swung  on 
him  on  the  instant. 

"You've  left  my  baggage  behind!"  he  shouted. 
"My  papers,  plans,  everything!  I  can't  go  on  without 
them!"  He  shook  his  fist.  "You'll  either  get  that 
baggage  here,  or  get  me  ashore !" 


236  PAWNED 

The  purser  eyed  Crang's  fist,  and  stiffened  percept- 
ibly. 

"I'm  not  a  magician,  Mr.  Bruce,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I  am  very  sorry  indeed  that  this  should  have  hap- 
pened; but  it  is  quite  impossible,  of  course,  to  get  your 
baggage  here." 

"Then  get  me  ashore !"  Crang  snatched  up  his  coat 
and  put  it  on.  "There's  a  tug,  or  something,  out  there, 
isn't  there?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  purser,  "that's  the  company's  tug, 
and  I  suppose  you  could  go  back  on  her,  if  you  think 
you " 

"Think!"  howled  Crang.  "I  don't  think  anything 

about  it !  I  know  that "  His  eye  suddenly  caught 

the  envelope  on  the  couch  containing  the  ticket.  "And 
what  about  this?"  He  picked  it  up,  jerked  out  the 
ticket,  and  waved  it  in  the  purser's  face. 

The  purser  refused  the  document. 

"You'll  have  to  see  the  New  York  office,  sir,  about 
that,"  he  said. 

"I  will,  will  I?"  snapped  Crang.  "Well,  that  isn't 
all  I'll  see  them  about  I" 

"I  am  sure  they  will  do  what  they  can,  sir,  to  make 
things  right — if  they  are  to  blame,"  said  the  purser  a 
little  sharply.  "But  it  might  have  been  your  teamer, 
you  know,  who  made  the  mistake."  He  turned  to  the 
door.  "I  will  arrange  about  your  going  ashore,  Mr. 
Bruce." 

"Yes!"  growled  Crang  savagely — and  five  minutes 
later,  swearing  volubly  for  the  benefit  of  those  within 
hearing,  he  wriggled  his  way  down  a  rope  ladder  to 
the  tug's  deck. 

A  deck  hand  led  him  to  the  pilot  house. 


CABIN  H-i4  237 

"The  captain'll  be  along  as  soon  as  we  start,"  the 
man  informed  him. 

Crang  made  himself  comfortable  in  a  cushioned 
chair.  Ke  sat  chuckling  maliciously,  as  he  stared  up 
at  the  towering  hull  that  twinkled  with  lights  above 
him — and  then  the  chuckle  died  away,  and  little  red 
spots  came  and  burned  in  his  sallow  cheeks,  and  his 
lips  worked,  and  his  hands  curled  until  the  nails  bit 
into  the  palms. 

He  lost  track  of  time. 

A  man  came  into  the  pilot  house,  and  gave  the 
wheel  a  spin. 

"We're  off!"  said  the  man  heartily.  "You've  had 
tough  luck,  I  hear." 

Crang' s  fingers  caressed  his  bruised  and  swollen 
throat. 

"Yes,"  said  Crang  with  a  thin  smile;  "but  I  think 
somebody  is  going  to  pay  the  bill — in  full." 

The  tug  was  heading  toward  New  York. 


—  XX  — 

OUTSIDE  THE  DOOR 

HAWKINS  very  cautiously  got  out  of  bed,  and 
consulted  his  watch.      It  was   five   minutes 
after  nine.    He  stole  to  the  door  and  listened. 
There  was  no  sound  from  below.     Mrs.  Hedges,  who 
had  been  his  jailor  all  day,  had  now,  he  was  fairly 
certain,  finally  retired  for  the  night. 

The  old  blue  eyes  blinked  in  perplexity  and  he 
scratched  at  the  fringe  of  hair  behind  his  ear  in  a  per- 
turbed way,  as  he  began,  still  cautiously,  to  dress.  It 
had  been  a  very  dreary  day,  during  which  he  had  suf- 
fered not  a  little  physical  discomfort.  Mrs.  Hedges 
had  been  assiduous  in  her  attentions;  more  than  that, 
even — motherly. 

"God  bless  her!"  said  Hawkins  to  one  of  his  boots, 
as  he  laced  it  up.  "Only  she  wouldn't  let  me  out." 

He  stopped  lacing  the  boot  suddenly,  and  sat  staring 
in  front  of  him.  Mrs.  Hedges  had  been  more  than 
even  motherly;  she  had  been — been — yes,  that  was  it — 
been  puzzling.  If  she  had  said  Paul  Veniza  wanted 
to  see  him,  why  had  she  insisted  that  Paul  Veniza 
didn't  want  to  see  him?  Hawkins'  gaze  at  the  blank 
wall  in  front  of  him  became  a  little  more  bewildered. 
He  tried  to  reconstruct  certain  fragments  of  conver- 
sation that  had  taken  place  between  Mrs.  Hedges  and 
himself. 

238 


OUTSIDE  THE  DOOR  239 

"Now,  you  just  lie  still,"  Mrs.  Hedges  had  insisted 
during  the  afternoon,  when  he  had  wanted  to  get  up. 
"Claire  told  me " 

He  remembered  the  sinking  of  his  heart  as  he  had 
interrupted  her. 

"Claire,"  he  had  said  anxiously,  "Claire  ain't — she 
don't  know  about  this,  does  she?" 

"Certainly  not!"  Mrs.  Hedges  had  assured  him. 

"But  you  said  she  told  you  something" — Hawkins 
continued  to  reconstruct  the  conversation — "so  she 
must  have  been  here." 

"Law!"  Mrs.  Hedges  had  returned.  "I  nearly  put 
my  foot  in  it,  didn't  I — I — I  mean  starting  you  in  to 
worry.  Certainly  she  don't  know  anything  about  it. 
She  just  came  over  to  say  her  father  wanted  to  see  you, 
and  I  says  to  her  you  ain't  feeling  very  well,  and  she 
says  it's  all  right." 

Hawkins  resumed  his  dressing.  His  mind  continued 
to  mull  over  the  afternoon.  Later  on  he  had  made 
another  attempt  to  get  up.  He  was  feeling  quite  well 
enough  to  go  over  and  find  out  what  Paul  Veniza 
wanted.  And  then  Mrs.  Hedges,  as  though  she  had 
quite  forgotten  what  she  had  said  before,  said  that 
Paul  Veniza  didn't  want  to  see  him,  or  else  he'd  send 
word. 

Hawkins  scratched  behind  his  ear  again.  His  head 
wasn't  quite  clear.  Maybe  he  had  not  got  it  all  quite 
straight.  Suddenly  he  smiled.  Of  course!  There 
wasn't  anything  to  be  bewildered  about.  Mrs.  Hedges 
was  just  simply  determined  that  he  would  not  go  out — 
and  he  was  equally  determined  that  he  would.  Paul 
Veniza  or  not,  he  had  been  long  enough  in  bed! 

"Yes,"  said  Hawkins;  "God  bless  her,  that's  it!" 


24o  PAWNED 

Hawkins  completed  his  toilet,  and  picking  up  his  old 
felt  hat,  reconnoitered  the  hallway.  Thereafter  he 
descended  the  stairs  with  amazing  stealth. 

"God  bless  her!"  said  Hawkins  softly  again,  as  he 
gained  the  front  door  without  raising  any  alarm  and 
stepped  outside — and  then  Hawkins  halted  as  though 
his  feet  had  been  suddenly  rooted  to  the  spot. 

At  the  curb  in  front  of  the  house  was  an  old  closed 
motor  car.  Hawkins  stared  at  it.  Then  he  rubbed 
his  eyes.  Then  he  stared  at  it  again.  He  stared  for 
a  long  time.  No ;  there  was  no  doubt  about  it — it  was 
the  traveling  pawn-shop. 

Hawkins'  mind  harked  back  to  the  preceding  eve- 
ning. He  had  met  two  men  in  the  saloon  around  the 
corner,  whom  he  had  seen  there  once  or  twice  before. 
He  had  had  several  drinks  with  them,  and  then  at  some 
one's  suggestion,  he  could  not  recollect  whose,  there 
had  followed  the  purchase  of  a  few  bottles,  and  an 
adjournment  to  his  room  for  a  convivial  evening. 
After  that  his  mind  was  quite  blank.  He  could  not 
even  remember  having  taken  out  the  car. 

"I — I  must  have  been  bad,"  said  Hawkins  to  him- 
self, with  a  rueful  countenance. 

He  descended  the  steps,  and  approached  the  car 
with  the  intention  of  running  it  into  the  shed  that 
served  as  garage  behind  the  house.  But  again  he 
halted. 

"No,"  said  Hawkins,  with  a  furtive  glance  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  front  door;  "if  I  started  it  up,  Mrs. 
Hedges  would  hear  me.  I  guess  I'll  wait  till  I  come 
back." 

Hawkins  went  on  down  the  street  and  turned  the 
corner.  He  had  grown  a  little  dejected. 


OUTSIDE  THE  DOOR  241 

"I'm  just  an  old  bum,"  said  Hawkins,  "who  ain't 
ever  going  to  swear  off  any  more  'cause  it  don't  do  any 
good." 

He  spoke  aloud  to  himself  again,  as  he  approached 
the  door  of  Paul  Veniza's  house. 

"But  I  am  her  daddy,"  whispered  the  old  man 
fiercely;  "and  she  is  my  little  girl.  It  don't  change 
nothing  her  not  knowing,  except — except  she  ain't 
hiding  her  face  in  shame,  and" — Hawkins'  voice  broke 
a  little — "and  that  I  ain't  never  had  her  in  these  arms 
like  I'd  ought  to  have."  A  gleam  of  anger  came  sud- 
denly into  the  watery  blue  eyes  under  the  shaggy 
brows.  "But  he  ain't  going  to  have  her  in  his!  That 
devil  from  the  pit  of  hell  ain't  going  to  kill  the  soul  of 
my  little  girl — somehow  he  ain't — that's  all  I  got  to 
live  for — old  Hawkins — ha,  ha ! — somehow  old  Haw- 
kins'll " 

Hawkins'  soliloquy  ended  abruptly.  He  was 
startled  to  find  himself  in  the  act  of  opening  the  front 
door  of  the  one-time  pawn-shop.  He  even  hesitated, 
holding  the  door  ajar — and  then  suddenly  he  pushed 
the  door  wider  open  and  stepped  softly  inside,  as  the 
sound  of  a  voice,  angry  and  threatening  in  its  tones, 
though  strangely  low  and  muffled,  reached  him.  He 
knew  that  voice.  It  was  Doctor  Crang's. 

It  was  dark  here  in  the  room  that  had  once  been 
the  office  of  the  pawn-shop,  and  upon  which  the  front 
door  opened  directly;  but  from  under  the  door  leading 
into  the  rear  room  there  showed  a  thread  of  light,  and 
it  was  from  there  that  Hawkins  now  placed  the  voice. 

He  stood  irresolute.  He  stared  around  him.  Up- 
stairs it  was  dark.  Paul  Veniza,  because  he  had  not 
been  well,  had  probably  gone  to  bed  early — unless  it 


242  PAWNED 

was  Paul  in  there  with  Crang.  No !  He  caught  the 
sound  of  Claire's  voice  now,  and  it  seemed  to  come  to 
him  brokenly,  in  a  strangely  tired,  dreary  way.  And 
then  Crang's  voice  again,  and  an  ugly  laugh. 

The  wrinkled  skin  of  Hawkins'  old  weather-beaten 
hands  grew  taut  and  white  across  the  knuckles  as  his 
fists  clenched.  He  tiptoed  toward  the  door.  He  could 
hear  distinctly  now.  It  was  Crang  speaking: 

".  .  .  I'm  not  a  fool!  I  did  not  speak  about  it  to 
make  you  lie  again.  I  don't  care  where  you  met  him, 
or  how  long  you  had  been  lovers  before  he  crawled  in 
here.  That's  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It's  enough  that 
I  know  you  were  lovers  before  that  night.  But  you 
belong  to  me  now.  Understand?  I  spoke  of  it 
because  the  sooner  you  realize  that  you  are  the  one  who 
is  the  cause  of  the  trouble  between  Bruce  and  me,  the 
better — for  him!  I  wasn't  crowding  you  before,  but 
I'm  through  fooling  with  it  now  for  keeps.  I  let  you 
go  too  long  as  it  is.  To-day,  for  just  a  little  while, 
he  won  out — yes,  by  God,  if  you  want  the  truth,  he 
nearly  killed  me.  He  got  me  tied  in  a  cabin  of  a  ship 
that  sailed  this  afternoon  for  South  America;  but  the 
engines  broke  down  in  the  harbor,  and,  damn  him,  I'm 
back!  You  know  what  for.  I've  told  you.  There's 
one  way  to  save  him.  I've  told  you  what  that  is,  too. 
I'm  waiting  for  your  answer." 

"Why  should  it  be  me?"  Claire's  voice  was  dull  and 
colorless.  "Why  cannot  you  leave  me  alone — I,  who 
hate  and  loathe  you?  Do  you  look  for  happiness  with 
me?  There  will  be  none." 

"Why  should  it  be  you?"  Crang's  voice  was  sud- 
denly hoarse  with  passion.  "Because  you  have  set  my 
brain  on  fire,  because  you  have  filled  me  with  a  mad- 


OUTSIDE  THE  DOOR  243 

ness  that  would  mock  God  Himself  if  He  stood 
between  us.  Do  you  understand — Claire?  Claire! 
Do  you  understand?  Because  I  want  you,  because  I'm 
going  to  have  you,  because  I'm  going  to  own  you — yes, 
own  you,  one  way  or  another — by  marriage,  or " 

A  low  cry  came  from  Claire.     It  tore  at  Hawkins'  ( 
heart   in   its  bitter    shame   and    anguish.      His    face 
blanched. 

"Well,  you  asked  for  it,  and  you  got  it!"  Crang 
snarled.  "Now,  I'm  waiting  for  your  answer." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  then  Claire  spoke  with  an 
obvious  effort  to  steady  her  voice: 

"Have  I  got  to  buy  him  twice?" 

"You  haven't  bought  him  once  yet,"  Crang  answered 
swiftly.  "I  performed  my  part  of  the  bargain.  I 
haven't  been  paid." 

And  Hawkins,  standing  there,  listening,  heard  noth- 
ing for  a  long  time ;  and  then  he  distinguished  Claire's 
voice,  but  it  was  so  low  that  he  could  not  catch  the 
words.  But  he  heard  Crang's  reply  because  it  was 
loud  with  what  seemed  like  passionate  savagery  and 
triumph : 

"You're  wise,  my  dear!  At  eight  o'clock  to-mor- 
row morning,  then.  And  since  Mr.  John  Bruce's  skin 
is  involved  in  this,  you  quite  understand  that  he  is  not 
to  be  communicated  with  in  any  way?" 

"I  understand."  Hawkins  this  time  caught  the 
almost  inaudible  reply. 

"All  right!"  Crang  said.  "There's  a  padre  I  know, 
who's  down  on  Staten  Island  now.  We'll  go  down 
there  and  be  married  without  any  fuss.  I'll  be  here  at 
eight  o'clock.  Your  father  isn't  fit  to  ride  in  that 
rattle-trap  old  bus  of  yours.  I'll  have  a  comfortable 


244  PAWNED 

limousine  for  him,  and  you  can  go  with  him.  Hawkins 
can  drive  me,  and" — he  was  laughing  softly — "and  be 
my  best  man.  I'll  see  that  he  knows  about  it  in  time 

f-rv— — — " 

Like  a  blind  man,  Hawkins  was  groping  his  way 
toward  the  front  door.  Married!  They  were  to  be 
married  to-morrow  morning! 

He  found  himself  on  the  street.  He  hurried. 
Impulse  drove  him  along.  He  did  not  reason.  His 
mind  was  a  tortured  thing.  And  yet  he  laughed  as  he 
scurried  around  the  corner,  laughed  in  an  unhinged 
way,  and  raised  both  hands  above  his  head  and 
pounded  at  the  air  with  his  doubled  fists.  They  were 
to  be  married  to-morrow  morning,  and  he — he  was  to 
be  best  man.  And  as  he  laughed,  his  once  ruddy, 
weather-beaten  face  was  white  as  a  winding-sheet,  and 
in  the  whiteness  there  was  stamped  a  look  that  it  was 
good  on  no  man's  face  to  see. 

And  then  suddenly  two  great  tears  rolled  down  his 
cheeks,  opening  the  flood  gates  of  his  soul. 

"My  little  girl!"  he  sobbed.    "Daddy's  little  girl!" 

And  reason  and  a  strange  calmness  came. 

"John  Bruce,"  he  said.     "He  loves  her  too." 

And  in  front  of  Mrs.  Hedges'  rooming-house  he 
climbed  into  the  driver's  seat  of  the  old  traveling 
pawn-shop. 

It  didn't  matter  now  how  much  noise  he  made. 


—  XXI  — 

THE  LAST  CHANCE 

JOHN  BRUCE  closed  the  door  of  Larmon's  suite, 
and,  taking  the  elevator,  went  up  to  his  own  room 
in   the    Bayne-Miloy   Hotel,    two   floors    above. 
Here,  he  flung  himself  almost  wearily  into  a  chair. 
Larmon  had  gone  to  bed;  but  bed  offered  no  appeal  to 
him,  John  Bruce,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  con- 
scious of  great  mental  fatigue.    Bed  without  sleep  was 
a  horror,  and  his  spirits  were  too  depressed  to  make 
sleep  even  a  possibility. 

From  a  purely  selfish  standpoint,  and  he  admitted 
to  utter  selfishness  now,  it  had  been  a  hollow  victory. 
Crang  was  gone,  disposed  of,  and  as  far  as  Larmon 
was  concerned  the  man  no  longer  existed,  for  if  Crang 
had  held  certain  intimate  knowledge  of  Larmon's  life 
over  Larmon's  head,  Larmon  was  now  in  exactly  the 
same  position  in  respect  to  Crang.  And  Crang,  too, 
for  the  time  being  at  least,  was  no  longer  a  factor  in 
Claire's  life. 

He  smiled  grimly  to  himself.  Hollow!  The  victory 
had  been  sweeping,  complete,  conclusive — for  every 
one  but  himself!  He  had  not  even  waited  to  leave  the 
dock  before  he  had  telephoned  Claire.  And  Claire 
had He  rose  suddenly  and  began  to  walk  fever- 
ishly up  and  down  the  room.  Hollow!  He  laughed 
out  shortly.  She  had  curtly  refused  to  talk  to  him. 

245 


246  PAWNED 

He  had  only  meant  to  telephone  to  say  that  he  was  on 
the  way  up  to  her  house,  and  he  had  managed  to  say 
that  much — and  she  had  coldly,  contemptuously  in- 
formed him  that  she  would  not  be  at  home,  and  had 
hung  up  the  receiver.  She  had  given  him  no  oppor- 
tunity to  say  any  more. 

It  was  not  like  Claire.  It  had  been  so  unexpected 
that  he  had  left  the  dock  mentally  dazed.  The  sight 
of  the  liner  out  in  the  stream  had  seemed  to  mock 
him  ironically.  After  that,  until  now,  he  had  followed 
the  line  of  least  resistance.  He  had  come  back  here 
to  the  hotel,  and  dined  with  Larmon. 

He  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Larmon ! 
It  had  been  a  singular  evening  that  he  had  just  spent 
with  Larmon.  He  had  got  a  new  viewpoint  on 
Larmon — a  strange,  grave,  sympathetic  Larmon.  He 
had  given  Larmon  the  details  of  everything  that  had 
happened;  and  Larmon  had  led  him  on  to  talk — of 
everything,  and  anything,  it  seemed  now,  as  he  looked 
back  upon  it.  And  somehow,  he  could  not  tell  why, 
even  while  he  felt  that  Larmon  was  drawing  him  out, 
urging  him  even  to  speak  of  Claire  and  the  most  inti- 
mate things  of  the  last  few  weeks,  he  had  been  glad 
to  respond.  It  was  only  when  Larmon  for  a  little 
while  had  discussed  his  great  chain  of  gambling  houses 
that  he,  John  Bruce,  had  felt  curiously  detached  from 
it  all  and  estranged  from  the  other,  as  though  he  were 
masquerading  as  some  one  else,  as  some  one  whom 
Larmon  believed  to  be  John  Bruce,  and  as  though  he 
in  his  true  self  had  no  interest  in  these  matters  any 
longer  in  a  personal  sense,  as  though  his  connection 
with  them  had  automatically  ceased  with  the  climax 
of  Crang'-s  removal.  It  was  queer!  But  then  his  mind 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  247 

had  been  obsessed,  elsewhere.  And  yet  here,  too,  he 
had  been  frank  with  Larmon — frank  enough  to  admit 
the  feelings  that  had  prompted  him  to  refrain  from 
actual  play  only  two  nights  before.  He  remembered 
the  quick  little  tattoo  of  Larmon's  quill  toothpick  at 
this  admission,  and  Larmon's  tight  little  smile. 

Yes,  it  had  been  a  singular  evening!  In  those  few 
hours  he  seemed  to  have  grown  to  know  Larmon  as 
though  he  had  known  the  man  all  his  life,  to  be  drawn 
to  Larmon  in  a  personal  way,  to  admire  Larmon  as  a 
man.  There  was  something  of  debonair  sang-froid 
about  Larmon.  He  had  made  no  fuss  over  his  escape 
that  day,  and  much  less  been  effusive  in  any  thanks. 
Larmon's  philosophy  of  life  was  apparently  definitely 
fixed  and  settled;  and,  in  so  far  as  Larmon  was  con- 
cerned, satisfactorily  so.  The  whole  world  to  Larmon 
was  a  gamble — and,  consistently  enough,  his  own  ac- 
tivities in  that  respect  were  on  as  vast  a  scale  as  possi- 
ble. 

Larmon  with  his  unemotional  face  and  his  quill 
toothpick !  No ;  not  unemotional !  When  Larmon  had 
finally  pleaded  fatigue  and  a  desire  to  go  to  bed,  there 
had  been  something  in  Larmon's  face  and  Larmon's 
"good-night,"  that  still  lingered  with  him,  John  Bruce, 
and  which  even  now  he  could  not  define. 

John  Bruce's  brows  gathered  into  tight  furrows. 
His  mind  had  flown  off  at  a  tangent.  There  was 
Claire!  It  had  not  been  like  Claire.  Nor  had  he 
meant,  nor  did  he  intend  now  to  accept  her  dismissal 
as  final.  But  what  was  it  that  had  happened?  What 
was  it?  He  could  think  of  only  one  thing — the  letter 
he  had  written  to  Larmon,  and  which,  on  that  account, 
he  had  asked  for  and  received  back  from  the  other. 


248  PAWNED 

It  was  a  certainty  that  Crang's  hand  was  in  this  some- 
where, and  Crang  had  said  that  he  had  shown  the  letter 
to  Claire,  but 

The  telephone  rang. 

John  Bruce  stepped  to  the  desk,  and  picked  up  the 
instrument. 

"Yes?    Hello!"  he  said. 

The  clerk's  voice  from  the  office  answered  him: 

"There's  a  man  down  here,  Mr.  Bruce,  who  insists 
on  seeing  you.  He's  pretty  seedy,  and  looks  as  though 
he  had  been  on  a  bat  for  a  week.  I'm  sorry  to  bother 
you,  but  we  can't  get  rid  of  him.  He  says  his  name  is 
Hawkins." 

"Send  him  up  at  once!"  said  John  Bruce  sharply. 

"Yes,  sir."  The  clerk  coughed  deprecatingly. 
"Very  well,  Mr.  Bruce.  Thank  you." 

Hawkins!  John  Bruce  walked  to  the  door  of  his 
suite,  and  opened  it.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was 
getting  on  now  to  eleven  o'clock.  What  on  earth  had 
brought  Hawkins  up  here  to  the  Bayne-Miloy  at  this 
hour?  He  smiled  a  little  grimly  as  he  stood  waiting 
on  the  threshold,  and  the  recollection  of  the  night 
before  last  came  back  to  him.  Well,  at  least,  he  was 
safe  to-night  from  any  kidnaping  through  the  medium 
of  Hawkins ! 

The  elevator  door  clanged  a  little  way  down  the 
corridor,  and  Hawkins,  followed  by  a  bell  boy, 
stepped  out. 

"This  way,  Hawkins !"  John  Bruce  called — and  dis- 
missed the  bell  boy  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

And  then,  as  Hawkins  reached  the  door,  John  Bruce 
stared  in  amazement,  and  for  a  moment  absolved  the 
clerk  for  his  diagnosis.  Hawkins'  face  was  like  parch- 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  249 

ment,  devoid  of  color;  his  hands,  twisting  at  the  old 
felt  hat,  trembled  as  with  the  ague ;  and  the  blue  eyes, 
fever-burned  they  seemed,  stared  out  in  a  fixed  way 
from  under  the  shaggy  brows. 

John  Bruce  pulled  the  old  man  inside  the  apartment, 
and  closed  the  door. 

"Good  Lord,  Hawkins  I"  he  exclaimed  anxiously. 
"What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

Hawkins  caught  at  John  Bruce's  arm. 

"It's  to-morrow  morning,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "To- 
morrow morning  at  eight  o'clock." 

"What  is?"  inquired  John  Bruce.  He  forced  the 
old  cabman  gently  into  a  chair.  "You're  upset,  Haw- 
kins. Here — wait!  I'll  get  you  something." 

But  Hawkins  held  him  back. 

"I  don't  want  a  drink."  There  was  misery,  bitter- 
ness, in  Hawkins'  voice.  "I  don't  want  a  drink — for 
once.  It's  come!  It — it's  come  to  the  end  now. 
Crang  and — and  my  little  girl  are  going  to  be  married 
to-morrow  morning." 

And  then  John  Bruce  laughed  quietly,  and  laid  his 
hand  reassuringly  on  the  old  cabman's  shoulder. 

"No,  Hawkins,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know  where  you 
got  that  idea ;  but  it  won't  be  to-morrow  morning,  nor 
for  a  good  many  to-morrow  mornings  either.  Crang 
at  the  present  moment  is  on  board  a  ship  on  his  way  to 
South  America." 

"I  know,"  said  Hawkins  dully.  "But  half  an  hour 
ago  I  left  him  with  Claire  in  Paul  Veniza's  house." 

John  Bruce's  hand  tightened  on  Hawkins'  shoulder 
until  the  old  man  winced. 

"You  what?"  John  Bruce  cried  out. 

"Yes,"  said  Hawkins.    "I  heard  him  talking  about 


250  PAWNED 

it  in  the  back  room.  They  didn't  know  I  was  there. 
He  said  there  was  something  the  matter  with  the 
engines." 

Crang  back !  John  Bruce's  face  was  set  as  chiselled 
marble. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying,  Hawkins?"  he 
demanded  fiercely,  as  though  to  trample  down  and 
sweep  aside  by  the  brute  force  of  his  own  incredulity 
the  other's  assertion.  "Do  you  know  what  you  are 
saying — do  you?" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Hawkins  helplessly.  "He  said 
you  nearly  killed  him  to-day,  and " 

John  Bruce's  laugh,  with  a  savagery  that  had  him 
now  at  its  mercy  and  in  its  grip,  rang  suddenly  through 
the  room. 

"Then,  for  once,  he  told  the  truth !"  he  cried.  "He 
tricked  me  cold  with  that  old  bus  last  night,  and 
trapped  me  in  the  rats'  hole  where  his  gang  holds  out, 
but " 

Hawkins  stumbled  to  his  feet.  His  face  seemed  to 
have  grown  grayer  still,  more  haggard  and  full  of 
abject  misery. 

"That's  it,  then!"  he  whispered.  "I — I  understand 
now.  I  was  drunk  last  night.  Oh,  my  God,  I'm  to 
blame  for  this,  too !" 

John  Bruce  pushed  Hawkins  almost  roughly  back 
into  his  chair.  Last  night  was  gone.  It  was  of  no 
significance  any  more. 

"Never  mind  about  that!"  he  said  between  his 
teeth.  "It  doesn't  matter  now.  Nothing  matters  now 
except  Claire.  Go  on,  tell  me!  What  does  it  mean? 
To-morrow  morning,  you  said.  Why  this  sudden  de- 
cision about  to-morrow  morning?" 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  251 

Hawkins'  lips  seemed  dry.  He  circled  them  again 
and  again  with  his  tongue. 

"He  said  you  nearly  killed  him  to-day,  as  I — I  told 
you,"  said  Hawkins,  fumbling  for  his  words.  "And 
he  said  that  you  had  been  lovers  before  that  night 
when  you  were  stabbed,  and  that  he  wasn't  going  to 
stand  for  it  any  longer,  and — and" — Hawkins'  voice 
broke — "and  that  she  belonged  to  him.  And  he  said 
she  was  the  only  one  who  could  stop  this  trouble  be- 
tween you  and  him  before  it  was  too  late,  and  that  was 
by  marrying  him  at  once.  And — and  Claire  said  she 
would." 

Hawkins  stopped.  His  old  felt  hat  was  on  his 
knees,  and  he  twisted  at  it  aimlessly  with  shaking 
fingers. 

John  Bruce  stood  motionless. 

"Go  on!"  he  bit  off  his  words. 

"That's  all,"  said  Hawkins,  "except  he  made  her 
promise  not  to  let  you  know  anything  about  it.  They're 
going  to  leave  the  house  to-morrow  morning,  and  are 
going  down  to  Staten  Island  to  get  married  because 
there's  some  minister  down  there  he  knows,  Crang 
said.  And  I'm  to  take  Crang,  and — and" — the  old 
man  turned  away  his  face — "I — I'm  to  be  best  man. 
That — that's  what  he  said — best  man." 

John  Bruce  walked  abruptly  to  the  window,  and 
stared  blindly  out  into  the  night.  His  brain  seemed 
afire. 

For  a  time  neither  man  spoke. 

"You  said  you  loved  her,"  said  Hawkins  at  last. 
"I  came  to  you.  There  wasn't  any  other  place  to  go. 
Paul  Veniza  can't  do  anything." 

John  Bruce  turned  from  the  window,  and  walking  to 


252  PAWNED 

Hawkins,  laid  his  two  hands  on  the  other's  shoulders. 
He  was  calmer  now. 

"Yes,  I  love  her,"  he  said  huskily.  "And  I  think — 
I  am  not  sure — but  I  think  now  there  is  a  chance  that 
she  can  be  made  to  change  her  mind  even  here  at  the 
last  minute.  But  that  means  I  must  see  her;  or,  rather, 
that  she  must  see  me." 

Hawkins  paused  in  the  twisting  of  his  felt  hat  to 
raise  bewildered  eyes. 

"I've  got  the  car  here,"  he  said.  "I'll  take  you 
down." 

"The  car!"  exclaimed  John  Bruce  quickly.  "Yes, 
I  never  thought  of  that!  Listen,  Hawkins!  Claire 
refused  to  see  me  this  afternoon,  or  even  to  talk  to 
me  over  the  telephone.  I  am  not  quite  sure  why.  But 
no  matter  what  her  reason  was,  I  must  see  her  now  at 
once.  I  have  something  to  tell  her  that  I  hope  will 
persuade  her  not  to  go  on  with  this  to-morrow  morn- 
ing— or  ever."  His  voice  was  growing  grave  and 
hard.  "I  hope  you  understand,  Hawkins.  I  believe 
it  may  succeed.  If  it  fails,  then  neither  you  nor  I,  nor 
any  soul  on  earth  can  alter  her  decision.  That's  all 
that  I  can  tell  you  now." 

Hawkins  nodded  his  head.  A  little  color,  eager- 
ness, hope,  had  come  into  his  face. 

"That's  enough,"  he  said  tremulously,  "as  long  as 
you — you  think  there  is  a  chance  even  yet.  And — and 
you  do,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  John  Bruce,  "I  think  there  is  more  than 
a  chance — if  I  can  see  her  alone  and  make  her  listen 
to  me.  The  car  will  be  just  the  thing.  But  she  would 
refuse  to  come  out,  if  she  knew  I  were  in  it.  I  depend 
on  you  for  that.  We'll  drive  down  there,  and  you  will 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  253 

have  to  make  some  excuse  to  get  her  to  come  with  you. 
After  that  you  can  keep  on  driving  us  around  the 
block  until  I  either  win  or  lose." 

Hawkins  rose  hurriedly  to  his  feet. 

"Let  us  go,  John  Bruce!  For  God's  sake,  let  us 
go !"  he  cried  eagerly.  "I'll — I'll  tell  her  Mrs.  Hedges 
— that's  my  landlady — has  got  to  see  her  at  once. 
She'll  come  quick  enough." 

John  Bruce  put  on  his  hat  and  coat,  and  without  a 
word  led  the  way  to  the  door — but  at  the  door  he 
paused  for  an  instant.  There  was  Larmon — and 
Crang  was  back.  And  then  he  shook  his  head  in  quick 
decision.  There  was  time  enough  later.  It  would 
serve  no  purpose  to  tell  Larmon  now,  other  than  the 
thankless  one  of  giving  Larmon  a  restless  night. 

John  Bruce  went  on.  He  did  not  speak  again  until, 
outside  the  hotel,  he  stepped  into  the  traveling  pawn- 
shop as  Hawkins  opened  the  car  door  for  him. 

"You  will  have  to  make  sure  that  Crang  has  gone," 
he  said  quietly.  "Don't  stop  in  front  of  the  house, 
Hawkins." 

"I'll  make  sure,"  whispered  Hawkins,  as  he  climbed 
to  his  seat.  "Oh,  my  God,  my  little  girl!" 

The  old  car  jolted  forward.  John  Bruce's  face  was 
set  again  in  hard,  chiselled  lines.  He  tried  to  think — 
but  now  his  brain  seemed  curiously  impotent,  as  though 
it  groped  through  chaos  and  through  turmoil  only  to 
stagger  back  bewildered,  defeated,  a  wounded  thing. 
And  for  a  time  it  was  like  that,  as  he  sat  there  sway- 
ing with  the  lurch  of  the  speeding  car,  one  thought 
impinging  fast  upon  another  only  to  be  swallowed  up 
so  quickly  in  turn  by  still  another  that  he  could  correlate 
no  one  of  them. 


254  PAWNED 

And  then,  after  a  little  time  again,  out  of  this  strange 
mental  strife  images  began  to  take  form,  as  sharply 
defined  and  distinct  one  from  the  other  as  before  they 
had  been  mingled  in  hopeless  confusion — and  he  cried 
out  aloud  in  sudden  agony  of  soul.  It  was  to  save  his 
life  that  this  had  happened.  He  had  wrung  that  knowl- 
edge from  Crang.  That  was  the  lever  he  meant  to 
use  with  Claire  now,  and  it  must  succeed.  He  must 
make  it  succeed!  It  seemed  to  drive  him  mad  now, 
that  thought — that  to-morrow  morning  she  should  die 
for  him.  Not  physical  death — worse  than  that !  God ! 
It  was  unthinkable,  horrible,  abominable.  It  seemed 
to  flaunt  and  mock  with  ruthless,  hell-born  sacrilege 
what  was  holiest  in  his  heart.  It  stirred  him  to  a  fury 
that  brought  him  to  his  feet,  his  fists  clenched.  Claire 
in  her  purity — at  the  mercy  of  a  degenerate  beast ! 

He  dropped  back  on  the  seat.  He  battled  for  calm- 
ness. In  a  little  while  Claire  would  be  here  beside 
him — for  a  little  while.  He  shook  his  head.  This  was 
not  real,  nothing  of  his  life  had  been  real  since  that 
moon-mad  night  on  the  sands  of  Apia.  No;  that  was 
not  true !  Soul,  mind  and  body  rose  up  in  fierce  denial. 
His  love  was  real,  a  living,  breathing,  actual  reality. 
Claire 

John  Bruce  sank  his  face  in  his  hands.  Hours 
seemed  to  pass.  And  then  he  was  conscious  that  the 
car  had  stopped.  He  roused  himself,  and  drawing  the 
window  curtain  slightly,  looked  out.  Hawkins  had 
stopped  a  few  houses  down  past  the  one-time  pawn- 
shop. 

John  Bruc^  rose  suddenly  and  changed  his  seat  to 
the  one  in  the  far  opposite  corner,  his  back  to  the 
front  of  the  car.  The  time  seemed  interminable.  Then 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  255 

he  heard  a  light  footstep  ring  on  the  pavement,  and  he 
heard  Hawkins'  voice.  The  car  door  was  opened,  a 
dark  form  entered,  sat  down,  *he  door  closed,  and  the 
car  started  forward. 

It  was  strange  I  It  was  like  that,  here  in  this  car, 
that  he  had  stepped  in  one  night  and  found  Claire — 
as  she  would  now  find  him.  That  was  so  long  ago ! 
And  it  seemed  so  long  too  since  even  he  had  last  seen 
her — since  that  night  when,  piqued  so  unwarrantably, 
he  had  left  Paul  Veniza's  house.  He  felt  his  hands 
tremble.  He  steadied  himself.  He  did  not  want  to 
frighten  or  startle  her  now. 

"Claire!"  he  said  softly. 

He  heard  a  slight,  quick  rustle  of  garments — and 
then  the  light  in  the  car  was  flashed  on. 

She  was  leaning  tensely  forward,  a  little  figure  with 
loose  cloak  flung  over  her  shoulders,  without  hat,  a 
wondrous  sheen  from  the  light  on  the  dark,  silken  hair, 
her  eyes  wide,  her  finger  still  on  the  electric-light 
button. 

"You!"  she  cried  sharply.  "And  Hawkins,  too,  in 
this!" 

She  reached  for  the  door  handle;  but  John  Bruce 
caught  her  hand. 

"Claire!"  he  pleaded  hoarsely.  "Wait!  If  it  is  a 
trick,  at  least  you  know  that  with  Hawkins  and  me 
you  will  come  to  no  harm.  What  else  could  I  do? 
You  would  not  speak  to  me  this  afternoon,  you  would 
not  let  me  see  you,  and  I  must  talk  to  you  to-night." 

She  leoked  at  him  steadily. 

"Must?"  she" repeated  coldly.  "And  to-night?  Why 
to-night?" 

"Because,"  John  Bruce  answered  quickly,  "to-mor- 


256  PAWNED 

row  would  be  too  late.  I  know  about  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. Hawkins  told  me.  He  was  outside  the  door  of 
that  room  when  Crang  was  talking  to  you  to-night." 

She  sank  back  in  her  seat  with  a  little  cry.  Her  face 
had  gone  white — but  again  she  steadied  herself. 

"And — and  do  you  think  that  is  any  reason  why  you 
should  have  inveigled  me  into  this  car?"  she  asked 
dully.  "Do  you  think  that  anything  you  can  say  will 
alter — to-morrow  morning?" 

"Yes;  I  do!"  said  John  Bruce  earnestly.  "But"— 
he  smiled  a  little  bitterly — "I  am  afraid,  too,  that  it 
will  be  hopeless  enough  if  first  you  will  not  tell  me 
what  has  so  suddenly  come  between  us.  Claire,  what 
is  it?" 

The  dark  eyes  lighted  with  a  glint,  half  angry,  half 
ironical. 

"Is  that  what  you  brought  me  here  for?" 

"No,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Then,"  she  said  coolly,  "if  you  do  not  know,  I  will 
tell  you.  I  read  a  letter  that  you  wrote  to  a  certain 
Mr.  Larmon." 

It  was  a  long  minute  before  he  spoke. 

"I — I  thought  it  might  be  that,"  he  said  slowly.  "I 
knew  you  had  seen  it.  Crang  told  me  so.  And — and 
I  was  afraid  you  might  believe  it — Claire." 

"Believe  it!"  she  returned  monotonously.  "Had  I 
any  choice?  Have  I  any  now?  I  knew  you  were  in 
danger.  I  knew  it  was  written  to  save  your  life.  I 
knew  it  was  your  handwriting.  I  knew  you  wrote  it." 
She  turned  away  her  head.  "It  was  so  miserable  a  lie, 
so  cowardly  a  betrayal — to  save  your  life." 

"But  so  hard  to  believe,  and  so  bitter  a  thing  to 
believe" — there  was  a  sudden  eager  thrill  in  John 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  257 

Bruce's  voice — "that  you  wept  upon  it.  Look,  Claire  1" 
he  cried.  "I  have  that  letter  here — and  this,  that 
I  took  from  Crang  to-day  when  I  turned  the  tables  on 
him.  See!  Read  them  both!"  He  took  from  his 
pocket  the  letter  and  the  slip  cut  from  the  bottom  of 
the  sheet,  and  laid  them  in  her  lap.  "The  bottom  was 
written  in  invisible  ink — the  way  I  always  communi- 
cated privately  with  Larmon.  Salt  brings  it  out.  I 
knew  Larmon  would  subject  it  to  the  test,  so  I  was 
willing  to  write  anything  that  Crang  dictated.  I  wrote 
that  secret  message  on  the  bottom  of  the  paper  while 
Crang  was  out  of  the  room  where  he  had  me  a  prisoner. 
Oh,  don't  you  see  now,  Claire?  When  your  tears  fell 
on  the  paper  faint  traces  of  the  secret  writing  began 
to  appear.  That  gave  Crang  the  clew,  and  he  worked 
at  it  until  he  had  brought  out  the  message,  and  then  he 
cut  off  the  bottom  before  delivering  the  letter  to  Lar- 
mon, and " 

John  Bruce  stopped.  Claire's  face  was  buried  in  the 
cushions,  and,  huddled  in  the  corner  of  the  car,  she 
was  sobbing  bitterly. 

"Don't !  Don't  cry,  Claire !"  John  Bruce  whispered, 
and  laid  his  hand  over  hers  where  it  crushed  the  letter 
in  her  lap. 

"I  believed  it,"  she  said.  "I  did  you  that  wrong. 
There  is  no  forgiveness  for  such  meanness  of  soul  as 
that." 

"No,"  John  Bruce  answered  gently,  "there  is  no  for- 
giveness— because  there  is  nothing  to  forgive.  It  was 
only  another  piece  of  that  miserable  hound's  cunning 
that  tricked  us  both.  I  did  not  appreciate  what  he  was 
after  in  that  reference  to  you;  I  thought  he  was  only 
trying  to  make  the  letter  bullet-proof  in  its  plausibility 


258  PAWNED 

for  Larmon's  benefit — I  never  thought  that  he  would 
show  it  to  you." 

She  had  not  drawn  her  hand  away,  but  her  face  was 
still  hidden;  and  for  a  moment  there  was  silence  be- 
tween them. 

"Claire,"  John  Bruce  said  in  a  low  voice,  "the  night 
I  left  your  house  you  said  that,  rather  than  regretting 
your  promise  to  marry  Crang,  you  had  come  to  be  glad 
you  had  made  it.  Can  you  still  say  that?" 

She  lifted  her  face  now,  tear-stained,  the  brown  eyes 
strangely  radiant  through  the  wet  lashes. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I  am  glad.  So  glad — because  I 
know  now  that  it  was  worth  it  all  so  many,  many  times 


over." 


"Claire" — his  voice  was  lower  still — "I  left  your 
house  that  night,  angry,  jealous,  misjudging  you  be- 
cause you  had  said  that.  You  asked  for  forgiveness  a 
minute  ago  when  there  was  nothing  to  forgive ;  I  asked 
for  forgiveness  from  you  after  that  night,  but  even  then 
I  did  not  know  how  far  beyond  the  right  to  forgiveness 
I  had  gone." 

She  stared  at  him  in  a  startled  way. 

"What — what  do  you  mean?"  she  breathed. 

And  now  John  Bruce's  face  was  alight. 

"You  have  confessed  your  love,  Claire  I"  he  cried 
passionately.  "It  was  not  fair,  perhaps,  but  I  am  past 
all  that  now — and  you  would  not  have  confessed  it  in 
any  other  way.  Glad!  I  was  a  stranger  that  night 
when  you  bought  my  life — and  to-night  you  are  glad, 
not  because  my  life  is  now  or  ever  could  be  worth  such 
a  sacrifice  as  yours,  but  because  love  has  come  to  make 
you  think  so,  sweetheart,  and  you  care — you  care  for 
me." 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  259 

"You  know!"  Her  face  was  deathly  white.  "You 
know  about — about  that  night?"  she  faltered. 

John  Bruce  had  both  her  hands  imprisoned  now. 

"Yes;  I  know!"  He  laughed  with  a  strange  buoy- 
ancy; passion,  triumph,  were  vibrant  in  his  voice.  "Did 
Crang  not  tell  you  how  near  to  death  he  came  to-day? 
I  choked  the  truth  out  of  him.  Yes ;  I  know  I  I  know 
that  it  was  to  save  my  life  you  made  that  promise,  that 
you  sold  everything  you  held  dear  in  life  for  me — but 
it  is  over  now!" 

He  was  beside'  her.  He  raised  her  two  hands  to 
draw  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

She  struggled  back. 

"No,  no!"  she  cried  wildly.  "Oh,  you  must  not — 
you  must  not!" 

"Must  not!"  His  voice  rang  his  challenge  to  the 
world.  The  blood  was  pounding  in  mad  abandon 
through  his  veins.  His  soul  itself  seemed  aflame. 
Closer,  closer  he  drew  her  to  him.  "Must  not!  There 
is  only  you  and  me — and  our  love — on  all  the  earth!" 

But  still  she  struggled — and  then  suddenly  the  tears 
came. 

"Oh,  you  are  so  strong — so  strong,"  she  sobbed — 
and  like  some  weary  child  finding  rest  her  head  dropped 
upon  his  shoulder  and  lay  hidden  there. 

"Claire !     Claire  I"    It  was  his  soul  that  spoke. 

He  kissed  the  silken  hair,  and  fondled  it;  and  kissed 
the  tear-wet  eyes;  and  his  cheek  lay  against  hers;  and 
she  was  in  his  arms,  and  he  held  her  there  tight- 
clasped  so  that  she  might  never  go  again. 

And  after  a  time  she  sobbed  no  more ;  and  her  hand, 
lifting,  found  his  face  and  touched  it  gently,  and  creep- 
ing upward,  brushed  the  hair  back  from  his  forehead— 


260  PAWNED 

and  then  suddenly  she  clung  to  him  with  all  her  strength 
and  drew  his  head  down  until  her  lips  met  his. 

And  there  was  no  world  about  them,  and  time  was 
non-existent,  and  only  they  two  lived. 

It  was  Claire  at  last  who  put  his  arms  from  her  in  a 
wistful,  lingering  way. 

"We  have  been  mad  for  a  little  while,"  she  whis- 
pered. "Take  me  back  home  now,  John — and — and 
you  must  never  try  to  see  me  again." 

And  something  seemed  to  grow  chill  and  cold  within 
John  Bruce's  heart. 

"Not  that,  Claire !"  he  cried  out.  "You  do  not  mean 
that — that,  after  this,  you  will  go  on  with — with  to- 
morrow morning!" 

A  brave  little  effort  at  a  smile  quivered  on  her  lips. 

"We  have  had  our  hour,  John,"  she  said;  "yours 
and  mine.  It  can  never  be  taken  from  us,  and  I  shall 
live  in  it  all  my  life;  but  it  is  over  now.  Yes;  I  shall 
go  through  with  it  to-morrow  morning.  There  is  no 
other  way.  I  must  keep  my  promise." 

"No!"  he  cried  out  again.  "It  shall  never  be! 
Claire,  you  cannot  mean  what  you  are  saying!  A 
promise  like  that !  It  was  forced  upon  you  inhumanly, 
horribly.  He  would  have  murdered  me." 

"But  to-night  you  are  alive,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"Alive!  Yes!"  he  said  fiercely.  "I  am  alive, 
and " 

"It  is  because  you  are  alive  that  I  promised,"  she 
broke  in  gently.  "He  kept  his  word.  I  cannot  break 
mine." 

"Alive !"  John  Bruce  laughed  now  in  sudden,  bitter 
agony.  "Alive — yes!  And  do  you  think  that  I  can 
walk  about  the  streets,  and  talk,  and  smile,  and  suck 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  261 

the  honey  out  of  life,  while  you  have  paid  for  it  with  a 
tortured  soul?  Claire,  you  shall  not!  That  man 
is  No,  wait!  There  is  myself.  He  called  me  a 

snivelling  hypocrite.  You  shall  know  the  worst  of  me 
before  you  know  the  worst  of  him.  There  is  not  much 
to  tell — because  he  has  told  you.  I  am  a  gambler. 
All  my  life  I've  gambled.  As  far  back  as  I  can  re- 
member I've  been  a  rolling  stone.  My  life  has  been 
useless,  utterly  worthless.  But  I  was  never  ashamed 
of  it;  I  never  saw  any  reason  to  be  ashamed  until  you 
came  into  my  life.  It  hasn't  been  the  same  since  then 
— and  it  will  never  be  the  same  again.  You  have  given 
me  something  to  live  for  now,  Claire." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  do  not  argue  well,"  she  said  softly.  "If  I  have 
brought  this  to- you,  John,  I  am  so  glad — so  glad  for 
this,  too.  Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  glad  I  am,  for, 
because  I  loved  you,  the  knowledge  of  what  your  life 
was  hurt  me.  But  I  had  faith  in  you,  John,  as  I  always 
shall  have.  So  don't  you  see" — the  brave  little  smile 
came  again — "that  this  is  a  reward,  something  tangible 
and  great,  to  make  still  more  worth  while  the  promise 
that  I  made?" 

He  stared  at  her.  He  swept  his  hand  across  his 
eyes.  She  seemed — she  seemed  to  be  slipping  away 
from  him — beyond — beyond  his  reach. 

"That  man!"  he  said  desperately.  "You  said  you 
knew  him — but  you  do  not  know  him.  He  is  the  head 
and  front  and  brains  of  a  gang  of  crooks.  I  know! 
He  held  me  a  prisoner  in  their  dirty  lair,  a  hidden  place, 
a  cellar  over  in  the  slums — like  rats  they  were.  He  is 
a  criminal,  and  a  dangerous  one — while  he  masquer- 
ades with  his  medicine.  God  alone  knows  the  crimes, 


262  PAWNED 

if  there  are  any,  that  he  has  not  committed.  He  is  a 
foul,  unclean  and  filthy  thing,  debauched  and  dissolute, 
a  moral  leper.  Claire,  do  you  understand  all  this — 
that  his  life  is  pollution  and  defilement,  that  love  to 
him  is  lust,  that  your  innocence " 

With  a  broken,  piteous  cry,  Claire  stopped  him. 

And  again  he  stared  at  her.  She  did  not  speak,  but 
in  her  eyes  he  read  the  torment  of  a  far  greater  and 
fuller  appreciation  of  the  price  than  he,  he  knew, 
though  it  turned  his  soul  sick  within  him,  could  ever 
have. 

And  suddenly  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"Bought  I"  he  said  brokenly  in  his  agony.  "Oh,  my 
God,  this  has  bought  me!" 

He  felt  his  hands  drawn  away,  and  her  two  palms 
laid  upon  his  cheeks.  He  looked  at  her.  How  white 
she  was! 

"Help  me,  John,"  she  said  steadily.  "Don't — don't 
make  it  harder." 

She  reached  out  and  touched  the  bell  button  beside 
the  seat.  In  a  subconscious  way  he  remembered  that 
was  the  signal  for  Hawkins  to  bring  the  traveling 
pawn-shop  to  the  end  of  its  circuit  around  the  block  in 
its  old-time  trips  to  Persia.  He  made  no  effort  to  stop 
her.  There  was  something  of  ultimate  finality  in  her 
face  and  eyes  that  answered,  before  it  was  uttered,  the 
question  that  stumbled  on  his  lips. 

"Claire!  Claire!"  he  pleaded  wildly.  "Will  noth- 
ing  change  you?" 

"There  is  no  other  way,"  she  said. 

He  stretched  out  his  arms  to  draw  her  to  him  again, 
to  lay  her  head  once  more  upon  his  shoulder — but  now 
she  held  him  back. 


THE  LAST  CHANCE  263 

"No  I"  she  whispered.  "Be  merciful  nowy  John — 
my  strength  is  almost  gone." 

And  there  was  something  in  her  voice  that  held  him 
from  the  act. 

The  car  stopped. 

And  then,  as  the  door  was  opened  and  she  stood  up, 
suddenly  she  leaned  swiftly  forward  and  pressed  her 
lips  to  his — and  springing  from  the  car,  was  gone. 

John  Bruce  groped  his  way  out  of  the  car.  Across 
the  sidewalk  the  door  of  Paul  Veniza's  house  closed. 
Hawkins,  standing  by  the  car  door,  clutched  at  his 
arm.  And  Hawkins'  hand  was  trembling  violently. 
Slowly  his  eyes  met  Hawkins'. 

He  shook  his  head. 

The  old  lined  face  seemed  to  gray  even  in  the  murky 
light  of  a  distant  street  lamp. 

"I'd  rather  see  her  dead,"  said  the  old  cab  driver 
brokenly. 

John  Bruce  made  no  answer. 

Then  Hawkins,  gulping  his  words,  spoke  again : 

"I— where'llldriveyou?" 

John  Bruce  started  blindly  on  past  Hawkins  down 
the  street. 

"Nowhere,"  he  said. 


—  XXII  — 

THROUGH  THE  NIGHT 

A  GAUNT  and  haggard  figure  stalked  through 
the  night;  around  him  only  shuttered  windows, 
darkened  houses,  and  deserted  streets.  The 
pavements  rang  hollow  to  the  impact  of  his  boot-heels. 
Where  the  way  lay  open  he  went.  But  always  he 
walked,  walked  incessantly,  without  pause,  hurrying — 
nowhere. 

There  was  a  raw,  biting  chill  in  the  air,  and  his 
hands,  ungloved,  as  they  swung  at  his  sides,  were  blue 
with  cold.  But  sweat  in  great  beads  stood  out  upon 
his  forehead.  At  times  his  lips  moved  and  he  spoke 
aloud.  It  was  a  hoarse  sound. 

"Or  him!"  he  said.    "Or  him!" 

On!  Always  on!  There  was  no  rest.  It  was 
ceaseless.  The  gray  came  into  the  East. 

And  then  at  last  the  figure  halted. 

There  was  a  large  window  with  wire  grating,  and  a 
light  burned  within.  In  the  window  was  a  plate  mirror, 
and  a  time-piece.  It  was  a  jeweler's  window. 

The  man  looked  at  the  time-piece.  It  was  five 
o'clock.  He  looked  at  the  mirror.  It  reflected  the 
face  of  a  young  man  grown  old.  The  eyes  burned 
deep  in  their  sockets;  the  lines  were  hard,  without  soft- 
ness ;  the  skin  was  tightly  drawn  across  the  cheek  bones, 
and  was  colorless.  And  he  stared  at  the  face,  stared 

264 


THROUGH  THE  NIGHT  265 

for  a  time  without  recognition.  And  then  as  he  smiled 
and  the  face  in  the  mirror  smiled  with  him  in  a  dis- 
torted movement  of  the  lips,  he  swept  his  hand  across 
his  eyes. 

"John  Bruce,"  he  said. 

It  seemed  to  arouse  him  from  some  mental  absorp- 
tion in  which  his  physical  entity  had  been  lost.  It  was 
five  o'clock,  and  he  was  John  Bruce.  At  eleven  o'clock 
— or  was  it  twelve? — last  night  he  had  left  Hawkins 
standing  by  the  door  of  the  traveling  pawn-shop,  and 
since  then 

He  stared  around  him.  He  was  somewhere  down- 
town. He  did  not  know  where.  He  began  to  walk  in 
an  uptown  direction. 

Something  had  been  born  in  those  hours.  Some- 
thing cataclysmic.  What  was  it? 

"Or  him!"  The  words  came  again — aloud — with- 
out apparent  volition. 

What  did  that  mean?  It  had  something  to  do  with 
Hawkins ;  with  what  Hawkins  had  said,  standing  there 
by  the  traveling  pawn-shop.  What  was  it  Hawkins  had 
said?  Yes;  he  remembered:  "I'd  rather  see  her 
dead." 

"Or  him!" 

With  cold  judicial  precision  now  the  hours  unrolled 
themselves  before  him. 

"Or  him!" 

He  was  going  to  kill  Crang. 

The  hours  of  mental  strife,  of  torment  through 
which  he  had  just  passed,  were  as  the  memory  of  some 
rack  upon  which  his  soul  had  been  put  to  torture.  They 
came  back  vividly  now,  those  hours — every  minute  of 
them  a  living  eternity.  His  soul  had  shrunk  back 


266  PAWNED 

aghast  at  first,  and  called  it  murder;  but  it  was  not 
murder,  or,  if  it  was,  it  was  imperative.  It  was  the 
life  of  a  foul  viper — or  Claire's.  It  was  the  life  of  an 
unclean  thing  that  mocked  and  desecrated  all  decency, 
that  flung  its  sordid  challenge  at  every  law,  both  hu- 
man and  divine — or  the  life  of  a  pure,  clean  soul  made 
the  plaything  of  this  beast,  and  dragged  into  a  mire 
of  unutterable  abomination  to  suffocate  and  strangle  in 
its  noxious  surroundings  and  die. 

And  that  soul  was  in  jeopardy  because  at  this  mo- 
ment he,  John  Bruce,  had  the  power  of  movement  in 
his  limbs,  the  sense  of  sight,  the  ability  to  stretch  out 
his  hand  and  feel  it  touch  that  lamp-post  there,  and,  if 
he  would,  to  speak  aloud  and  designate  that  object  for 
what  it  was — a  lamp-post.  She  had  bought  him  these 
things  with  her  life.  Should  she  die — and  he  live? 

And  he  remembered  back  through  those  hours  since 
midnight,  when  his  soul  had  still  faltered  before  the 
taking  of  human  life,  how  it  had  sought  some  other 
way,  some  alternative,  any  alternative.  A  jail  sentence 
for  Crang.  There  was  enough,  more  than  enough  now 
with  the  evidence  of  Crang's  double  life,  to  convict  the 
man  for  the  robbery  of  that  safe.  But  Claire  had  an- 
swered that  in  the  long  ago:  "I  will  marry  him  when 
he  comes  out."  Or,  then,  to  get  Crang  away  again 
like  this  afternoon — no,  yesterday  afternoon.  It  was 
this  morning,  in  a  few  hours,  that  they  were  to  be  mar- 
ried. There  was  no  time  left  in  which  to  attempt  any- 
thing like  that;  but,  even  if  there  were,  he  knew  now, 
that  it  but  postponed  the  day  of  reckoning.  Claire 
would  wait.  Crang  would  come  back. 

He  was  going  to  kill  Crang. 

If  he  didn't,  Crang  would  kill  him.    He  knew  that, 


THROUGH  THE  NIGHT  267 

too.  But  his  decision  was  not  actuated,  or  even  swayed, 
by  any  consideration  of  self-preservation.  He  had  no 
thought  of  his  future  or  his  safety.  That  was  already 
settled.  With  his  decision  was  irrevocably  coupled  the 
forfeiting  of  his  own  life.  Not  his  own  life!  It  be- 
longed to  Glaire.  Claire  had  bought  it.  He  was  only 
giving  it  back  that  the  abysmal  price  she  had  agreed  to 
pay  should  not  be  extorted  from  her.  Once  he  had 
accomplished  his  purpose,  he  would  give  himself  up  to 
the  police. 

He  was  going  to  kill  Crang. 

That  was  what  had  been  born  out  of  the  travail  of 
those  hours  of  the  night.  But  there  were  other  things 
to  do  first.  He  walked  briskly  now.  The  decision 
in  itself  no  longer  occupied  his  thoughts.  The  decision 
was  absolute;  it  was  final.  It  was  those  "other  things" 
that  he  must  consider  now.  There  was  Larmon.  He 
could  not  tell  Larmon  what  he,  John  Bruce,  was  going 
to  do,  but  he  must  warn  Larmon  to  be  on  his  guard 
against  any  past  or  present  connection  with  John  Bruce 
coming  to  light.  Fortunately  Larmon  had  come  to 
New  York  and  registered  as  Peters.  He  must  make 
Larmon  understand  that  Larmon  and  John  Bruce  had 
never  met,  even  if  he  could  not  give  Larmon  any  spe- 
cific reason  or  explanation.  Larmon  would  probably 
refuse  at  first,  and  attribute  it  as  an  attempt  to  break, 
for  some  ulterior  reason,  the  bond  they  had  signed 
together  that  night  on  the  beach  at  Apia. 

John  Bruce  smiled  gravely.  The  bond  would  be 
broken  in  any  case.  Faustus  was  at  the  end  of  the  play. 
A  few  months  in  prison,  the  electric  chair — how  apt 
had  been  his  whistling  of  that  aria  in  his  youth! 


268  PAWNED 

Youth!  Yes,  he  was  old  now;  he  had  been  young  that 
night  on  the  beach  at  Apia. 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  let  the  sharp  air  sweep  his 
head.  He  was  not  thinking  clearly.  All  this  did  not 
express  what  he  meant.  There  was  Larmon's  safety. 
He  must  take  care  of  that;  see  to  it,  first  of  all,  that 
Larmon  could  not  be  implicated,  held  by  law  as  an 
accomplice  through  foreknowledge  of  what  was  to 
happen;  then,  almost  of  as  great  importance  for 
Larmon's  sake  and  future,  the  intimacy  between  them, 
their  business  relations  of  the  past,  must  never  be  sub- 
jected to  the  probe  of  the  trial  that  was  to  come. 

John  Bruce  nodded  his  head  sharply.  Yes,  that  was 
better  I  But  there  was  still  something  else — that  bond. 
He  knew  to-night,  even  if  prison  walls  and  a  death 
penalty  were  not  about  to  nullify  that  bond  far  more 
effectively  than  either  he  or  Larmon  ever  could,  that 
the  one  thing  he  wanted  now,  while  yet  he  was  a  free 
agent,  while  yet  it  was  not  arbitrarily  his  choice,  was 
to  cancel  that  agreement  which  was  so  typical  of  what 
his  life  up  to  the  present  time  had  always  stood  for; 
and  in  its  cancellation,  for  what  little  time  was  left, 
to  have  it  typify,  instead,  a  finer  manhood.  The  future, 
premonitive,  grim  in  its  promise,  seemed  to  hold  up 
before  him  as  in  a  mirror  where  no  lines  were  softened, 
where  only  the  blunt,  brutal  truth  was  reflected,  the 
waste  and  worthlessness  of  the  past.  He  had  no  wish 
to  evade  it,  or  temporize  with  it,  or  seek  to  palliate  it. 
He  knew  only  a  vain  and  bitter  regret;  knew  only  the 
desire  now  at  the  end,  in  so  far  as  he  could,  to  face 
death  a  changed  man. 

He  walked  on  and  on.  He  was  getting  into  the 
uptown  section  now.  How  many  miles  he  must  have 


THROUGH  THE  NIGHT  269 

covered  since  he  had  left  Hawkins,  and  since  the  door 
of  the  one-time  pawn-shop  had  closed  on  that  little 
bare-headed  figure  with  the  loose  cloak  clutched  about 
her  throat — the  last  sight  he  had  had  of  Claire !  How 
many  miles?  He  did  not  know.  It  must  have  been 
many,  very  many.  But  he  felt  no  weariness.  It  was 
strange!  It  was  as  though  his  vitality  and  energy 
flowed  into  him  from  some  wholly  extraneous  source; 
and  as  though  physically  he  were  non-existent. 

He  wondered  what  Larmon  would  say.  Larmon 
alone  had  the  right  to  cancel  the  bond.  That  was  the 
way  it  had  been  written.  Would  Larmon  refuse?  He 
hoped  not,  because  he  wanted  to  part  with  Larmon  as 
a  friend.  He  hoped  not,  though  in  the  final  analysis, 
in  a  practical  way,  Larmon's  refusal  must  be  so  futile 
a  thing.  Would  Larmon  laugh  at  him,  and,  not  know- 
ing, call  him  a  fool?  He  shook  his  head.  He  did  not 
know.  At  least  Larmon  would  not  be  surprised.  The 
conversation  of  last  evening 

John  Bruce  looked  up.  He  was  at  the  entrance  to 
the  Bayne-Miloy  Hotel.  He  entered,  nodded  mechani- 
cally to  the  night  clerk,  stepped  into  the  elevator,  and 
went  up  to  his  room.  There  was  his  revolver  to  be 
got.  Afterward  he  would  go  down  to  Larmon's  room. 
Somehow,  even  in  the  face  of  that  other  thing  which 
he  was  to  do,  this  interview  which  was  to  come  with 
Larmon  obsessed  him.  It  seemed  to  signify  some  vital 
line  of  demarcation  between  the  old  life  and  the  new. 

The  new!  He  smiled  grimly,  without  mirth,  as, 
entering  his  room,  he  switched  on  the  light,  stepped 
quickly  to  his  desk,  pulled  open  a  drawer,  and  took  out 
his  revolver.  The  new!  There  would  be  very  little 
of  the  new!  He  laughed  now  in  a  low,  raucous  way, 


270  PAWNED 

as  he  slipped  the  weapon  into  his  pocket.  The  new  I 
A  few  weeks,  a  few  months  of  a  prison  cell,  and 
then  His  laugh  died  away,  and  a  half  startled, 

half  perplexed  look  settled  on  his  face.  For  the  first 
time  he  noticed  that  a  letter,  most  obviously  placed  to 
attract  his  attention,  lay  on  the  center  of  the  desk  pad. 
Strange,  he  had  not  seen  it  instantly  1 

He  stared  at  it  now.  It  was  a  plain  envelope, 
unstamped,  and  addressed  to  him.  The  writing  was 
familiar  too !  Larmon's !  He  picked  it  up,  opened  it 
— and  from  the  folds  of  the  letter,  as  he  drew  it  from 
the  envelope,  four  torn  pieces  of  paper  fluttered  to  the 
desk.  And  for  a  long  time,  in  a  dazed  way,  he  gazed 
at  them.  The  letter  dropped  from  his  hand.  Then 
mechanically  he  pieced  the  four  scraps  together.  It 
was  one  of  the  leaves  torn  from  Larmon's  notebook 
that  night  in  Apia — and  here  was  the  heavy  scrawl 
where  he,  John  Bruce,  had  signed  with  the  quill  tooth- 
pick. It  was  Larmon's  copy  of  the  bond. 

And  again  for  a  long  time  he  stared  at  it,  then  he 
picked  up  the  letter  again.  He  read  it  slowly,  for 
somehow  his  brain  seemed  only  able  to  absorb  the 
words  in  a  stunned  way.  Then  he  read  it  again : 

Dear  Bruce: —  n  P.  M. 

Something  has  come  into  your  life  that  was  not  there  on  a 
night  you  will  remember  in  the  Southern  Seas,  and  I  know  of 
no  other  way  to  repay  you  for  what  you  did  for  me  to-day  than 
to  hand  you  this.  I  knew  from  what  you  said  to-night,  or, 
rather  perhaps,  from  what  you  did  not  say,  that  this  was  in 
your  heart.  And  if  I  were  young  again,  and  the  love  of  a 
good  woman  had  come  to  me,  I  too  should  try — and  fail,  I 
fear,  where  you  will  succeed — to  play  a  man's  part  in  life. 

And  so  I  bid  you  good-by,  for  when  you  read  this  I  shall  be 


THROUGH  THE  NIGHT  271 

on  my  way  back  West.  What  I  lose  another  will  gain. 
Amongst  even  my  friends  are  men  of  honorable  callings  and 
wide  interests  who  need  a  John  Bruce.  You  will  hear  from 
one  of  them.  Godspeed  to  you,  for  you  are  too  good  and 
dean  a  man  to  end  your  days  as  I  shall  end  mine — a  gambler. 

Yours, 
GILBERT  LARMON. 

The  love  of  a  good  woman — and  young  again ! 
John  Bruce's  face  was  white.  A  thousand  conflicting 
emotions  seemed  to  surge  upon  him.  There  was  some- 
thing fine  and  big  in  what  Larmon  had  done,  like  the 
Larmon  whose  real  self  he  had  come  to  glimpse  for 
the  first  time  last  night;  and  something  that  was  almost 
ghastly  in  the  unconscious  irony  that  lay  behind  it  all. 
And  for  a  little  while  he  stood  there  motionless,  hold- 
ing the  letter  in  his  hand;  then  with  a  quick,  abrupt 
return  to  action,  he  began  to  tear  the  letter  into  little 
shreds,  and  from  his  pocket  he  took  his  own  copy  of 
the  bond  and  tore  that  up,  and  the  four  pieces  of 
Larmon's  copy  he  tore  into  still  smaller  fragments, 
and  gathering  all  these  up  in  his  hands,  he  walked  to 
the  window  and  let  them  flutter  out  into  the  night. 

The  way  was  clear.  There  was  nothing  to  connect 
Gilbert  Larmon  with  the  man  who  to-morrow — no, 
to-day — would  be  in  the  hands  of  the  police  charged 
with  murder.  Nothing  to  bring  to  light  Larmon's 
private  affairs,  for  nothing  bearing  Larmon's  signature 
had  ever  been  kept;  it  was  always  destroyed.  Larmon 
was  safe — for,  at  least,  they  could  never  make  John 
Bruce  talk. 

There  was  a  strange  relief  upon  him,  a  strange 
uplift;  not  only  for  Larmon's  sake,  but  for  his  own. 
The  link  that  had  bound  him  to  the  past  was  gone, 


272  PAWNED 

broken,  dissolved.  He  stood  free — for  the  little  time 
that  was  left;  he  stood  free — to  make  a  fresh  start  in 
the  narrow  confines  of  a  prison  cell.  He  smiled  grimly. 
There  was  no  irony  here  where  it  seemed  all  of  irony. 
It  meant  everything — all.  It  was  the  only  atonement 
he  could  make. 

He  switched  off  the  light,  left  his  room,  and  went 
down  to  the  desk.  Here  he  consulted  the  directory. 
He  requested  the  clerk  to  procure  a  taxi  for  him. 

It  was  five  minutes  after  six  by  the  clock  over  the 
desk. 

He  entered  the  taxi  and  gave  the  chauffeur  the 
address.  He  was  unconscious  of  emotion  now.  He 
knew  only  a  cold,  fixed,  merciless  purpose. 

He  was  going  to  kill  Crang. 

The  taxi  stopped  in  front  of  a  frame  house  that 
bore  a  dirty  brass  name-plate.  He  dismissed  the  taxi, 
and  mounted  the  steps.  His  right  hand  was  in  the 
pocket  of  his  coat.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  obtaining  no 
response,  rang  again — and  after  that  insistently. 

The  door  was  finally  opened  by  an  old  woman,  evi- 
dently aroused  from  bed,  for  she  clutched  tightly  at  a 
dressing  gown  that  was  flung  around  her  shoulders. 

"I  want  to  see  Doctor  Crang,"  said  John  Bruce. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"The  doctor  isn't  in,"  she  answered. 

"I  will  wait  for  him,"  said  John  Bruce. 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  know  when  he  will  be  back.  He  hasn't  been 
here  since  yesterday  morning." 

"I  will  wait  for  him,"  said  John  Bruce  monoto- 
nously. 

"But " 


THROUGH  THE  NIGHT  273 

John  Bruce  brushed  his  way  past  her  into  the  hall. 

"I  will  wait  for  him,"  he  repeated. 

A  door  was  open  off  the  hallway.  John  Bruce 
looked  in.  It  was  obviously  Crang's  office.  He  went 
in  and  sat  down  by  the  window. 

The  woman  stood  for  a  long  time  in  the  doorway 
watching  him.  Finally  she  went  away. 

John  Bruce's  mind  was  coldly  logical.  Crang  was 
not  aware  that  his  escape  was  known  to  any  one  except 
Claire,  and  he  had  been  cunning  enough  to  keep  under 
cover.  That  was  why  he  had  not  been  home.  But  he 
would  be  home  before  he  went  out  to  be  married. 
Even  a  man  like  Crang  would  have  a  few  preparations 
to  make. 

John  Bruce  sat  by  the  window.  Occasionally  the  old 
woman  came  and  stood  in  the  doorway — and  went 
away  again. 

There  was  no  sign  of  Crang. 

At  fifteen  minutes  of  eight  John  Bruce  rose  from 
his  chair  and  left  the  house. 

"He  was  to  be  at  Paul  Veniza's  at  eight,"  said  Tohn 
Bruce  to  himself  with  cool  precision. 


—  XXIII  — 

THE  BEST  MAN 

HAWKINS  sat  at  the  table  in  his  room,  and 
twined  and  twined  one  old  storm-beaten  hand 
over  the  other.  For  hours  he  had  sat  like 
that.  It  was  light  in  the  oom  now,  for  it  was  long 
after  seven  o'clock.  His  bed  had  not  been  slept  in. 
He  was  dressed  in  his  shiny  best  suit;  he  wore  his 
frayed  black  cravat.  He  had  been  dressed  like  that 
since  midnight;  since  he  had  returned  home  after  Claire 
had  fled  into  her  house,  and  John  Bruce  had  strode 
by  him  on  the  sidewalk  with  set,  stony  face  and  unsee- 
ing eyes ;  since,  on  reaching  his  room  here,  he  had  found 
a  note  whose  signature  was  false  because  it  read  "Paul 
Veniza,"  when  he  knew  that  it  came  from  Crang. 
Crang  was  taking  precautions  that  his  return  should 
net  leak  out!  The  note  only  corroborated  what  he 
had  heard  through  the  door.  He  was  to  be  at  Paul 
Veniza's  at  eight  o'clock  with  the  traveling  pawn-shop. 
The  note  had  said  nothing  about  any  marriage ;  but, 
then,  he  knew!  He  was  to  be  the  best  man.  And  so 
he  had  dressed  himself.  After  that  he  had  waited. 
He  was  waiting  now. 

"The  first,"  said  Hawkins,  with  grave  confidence  to 
the  cracked  mirror.  "Yes,  that's  it — the  first  in  line, 
because  I  am  her  old  father,  and  there  ain't  nothing 
can  change  that." 

274 


THE  BEST  MAN  275 

His  own  voice  seemed  to  arouse  him.  He  stared 
around  the  shabby  room  that  was  his  home,  his  eyes 
lingering  with  strange  wistfulness  on  each  old  battered, 
and  long  familiar  object — and  then  suddenly,  with  a 
choking  cry,  his  head  went  down,  buried  in  his  arms 
outflung  across  the  table. 

"Pawned!"  the  old  man  cried  brokenly.  "It's 
twenty  years  ago,  I  pawned  her — twenty  years  ago. 
And  it's  come  to  this  because — because  I  ain't  never 
redeemed  her — but,  oh  God,  I  love  her — I  love  my 
little  girl — and — and  she  ain't  never  going  to  know 
how  much." 

His  voice  died  away.  In  its  place  the  asthmatic  gas- 
jet  spat  venomous  defiance  at  the  daylight  that  was 
so  contumaciously  deriding  its  puny  flame. 

And  after  a  little  while,  Hawkins  raised  his  head. 
He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"It's  time  to  go,"  said  Hawkins — and  cleared  his 
throat. 

Hawkins  picked  up  his  hat  and  brushed  it  carefully 
with  his  coat  sleeve;  his  shoulders,  and  such  of  his 
attire  as  he  could  reach,  he  brushed  with  his  hands; 
he  readjusted  his  frayed  black  cravat  before  the 
cracked  mirror. 

"I'm  the  best  man,"  said  Hawkins. 

Oblivious  to  the  chattering  gas-jet,  he  descended  the 
stairs,  and  went  out  to  the  shed  in  the  rear  that  housed 
the  traveling  pawn-shop. 

"The  first  in  line,"  said  the  old  cab  driver,  as  he 
climbed  into  the  seat. 

Five  minutes  later,  he  drew  up  in  front  of  the  one- 
time pawn-shop.  He  consulted  his  watch  as  he  got 


276  PAWNED 

down  from  his  scat  and  entered  the  house.  It  was 
twenty-five  minutes  of  eight. 

He  twisted  his  hat  awkwardly  in  his  hands,  as  he 
entered  the  rear  room.  He  felt  a  sudden,  wild  rush 
of  hope  spring  up  within  him  because  there  was  no  sign 
of  Crang.  And  then  the  hope  died.  He  was  early; 
and,  besides,  Claire  had  her  hat  on  and  was  dressed 
to  go  out.  Paul  Veniza,  also  dressed,  lay  on  the  cot. 

No  one  spoke. 

Then  Paul  Veniza's  frame  was  racked  with  a  fit  of 
coughing,  and  out  of  a  face  ashen  in  pallor  his  eyes 
met  Hawkins'  in  silent  agony — and  then  he  turned  his 
head  away. 

Hawkins  twisted  at  his  hat. 

"I  came  a  little  early,"  he  said  wistfully,  "because  I 
thought  mabbe  you  might — that  mabbe  there  might  be 
some  change — that  mabbe  you  might  not " 

He  stopped.  He  was  looking  at  Claire.  Her  face 
was  very  white  too.  Her  smile  seemed  to  cut  at  his 
heart  like  a  knife. 

"No,  Hawkins,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice;  "there  is 
no  change.  We  are  going  to  Staten  Island.  You  will 
drive  Doctor  Crang.  There  is  a  limousine  coming  for 
father  and  me,  that  will  be  more  comfortable  for 
father." 

Hawkins'  eyes  went  to  the  floor. 

"I — I  didn't  mean  that  kind  of  a  change,"  he  said. 

"I  know  you  didn't,  Hawkins.  But — but  I  am  try- 
ing to  be  practical."  Her  voice  broke  a  little  in  spite 
of  herself.  "Doctor  Crang  doesn't  know  that  you 
overheard  anything  last  night,  or  that  you  know  any- 
thing about  the  arrangements,  so — so  I  am  explaining 
them  to  you  now." 


THE  BEST  MAN  277 

Hawkins'  eyes  were  still  on  the  floor. 

"Ain't  there  nothing" — his  voice  was  thick  and 
husky — "ain't  there  nothing  in  all  the  world  that  any 
of  us  can  do  to  make  you  change  your  mind?  Claire, 
ain't  there  nothing,  nothing  at  all?  John  Bruce  said 
there  wasn't,  and  you  love  John  Bruce,  but  " 

"Don't,  Hawkins!"  she  cried  out  pitifully. 

The  old  shoulders  came  slowly  up,  and  the  old  head ; 
and  the  old  blue  eyes  were  of  a  sudden  strangely  flint- 
like. 

"I've  got  to  know,"  said  Hawkins,  in  a  dead,  stub- 
born way. 

"There  is  nothing,"  she  answered. 

Hawkins'  eyes  reverted  to  the  floor.  He  spoke  now 
without  lifting  them. 

"Then — then  it's — it's  like  saying  good-by,"  he  said, 
and  the  broken  note  was  back  again  in  his  voice.  "It's 
— it's  so  many  years  that  mabbe  you've  forgotten,  but 
when  you  were  a  little  girl,  and  before  you  grew  up, 
and — and  were  too  big  for  that,  I — I  used  to  hold  you 
in  my  arms,  and  you  used  to  put  your  little  arnis  around 
my  neck,  and  kiss  me,  and — and  you  used  to  say  that — 
Hawkins  would  never  let  the  bugaboos  get  you,  and — 
and  I  wonder  if — if " 

"Oh,  Hawkins!"  Claire's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 
"I  remember.  Dear,  dear  Hawkins !  And  I  used  to 
call  you  Daddy  Hawkins.  Do  you  remember?" 

A  tear  found  a  furrow  and  trickled  down  the  old 
weather-b eaten  face  unchecked,  as  Hawkins  raised  his 
head. 

"Claire!  Claire!"  His  voice  trembled  in  its  yearn- 
ing. "Will — will  you  say  that  again,  Claire?" 

"Dear  Daddy  Hawkins,"  she  whispered. 


278  PAWNED 

His  arms  stretched  out  to  her,  and  she  came  to  them 
smiling  through  her  tears. 

"You've  been  so  good  to  me,"  she  whispered  again. 
"You  are  so  good  to  me — dear,  dear  Daddy  Haw- 
kins." 

A  wondrous  light  was  in  the  old  cabman's  face.  He 
held  the  slight  form  to  him,  trying  to  be  so  tenderly 
careful  that  he  should  not  hurt  her  in  his  strength. 
He  kissed  her,  and  patted  her  head,  and  his  fingers 
lingered  as  they  smoothed  the  hair  back  from  where  it 
made  a  tiny  curl  about  her  ear. 

And  then  he  felt  her  drawing  him  toward  the  couch 
— and  he  became  conscious  that  Paul  Veniza  was  hold- 
ing out  his  hands  to  them  both. 

And  Claire  knelt  at  the  side  of  the  couch  and  took 
one  of  Paul  Veniza's  hands,  and  Hawkins  took  the 
other.  And  no  one  of  them  looked  into  the  other's 
face. 

The  outer  door  opened,  and  Doctor  Crang  came  in. 
He  stood  for  an  instant  surveying  the  scene,  a  half 
angry,  half  sarcastic  smile  spreading  over  his  sallow 
face,  and  then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Ah,  you're  here,  like  me,  ahead  of  time,  Hawkins, 
I  see!"  he  said  shortly.  "You're  going  to  drive  me 
to  Staten  Island  where " 

Claire  rose  to  her  feet. 

"I  have  told  Hawkins,"  she  said  quietly. 

Hawkins'  hand  tightened  over  Paul  Veniza's  for  a 
moment,  and  then  he  turned  away. 

"I — I'll  wait  outside,"  said  Hawkins — and  brushed 
has  hand  across  his  eyes  as  he  went  through  the  door- 
way. 

Paul  Veniza  was  racked  with  a  sudden  fit  of  cough- 


THE  BEST  MAN  279 

ing  again.  Doctor  Crang  walked  quickly  to  the  couch 
and  looked  at  the  other  sharply.  After  a  moment  he 
turned  to  Claire. 

"Are  you  ready  to  go?"  he  asked  crisply. 

"Yes;  I  am  ready,"  she  answered  steadily. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Crang,  "you  had  better  go 
out  and  get  into  the  old  bus.  You  can  go  with  Hawkins 
and  me." 

"But" — Claire  looked  in  a  bewildered  way  at  Paul 
Veniza — "but  you  said " 

"I  know  I  did,"  Crang  interrupted  brusquely,  "but 
we're  all  here  a  little  early  and  there's  lots  of  time  to 
countermand  the  other  car."  He  indicated  Paul 
Veniza  with  a  jerk  of  his  head.  "He's  far  from  as 
well  as  he  was  last  night.  At  least  you'll  admit  that 
I'm  a  good  doctor,  and  when  I  tell  vou  he  is  not  fit  to 
go  this  morning  that  ought  to  be  enough  for  both  of 
you.  I'll  phone  and  tell  them  not  to  send  the  limou- 


sine." 


Still  Claire  hesitated.  Paul  Veniza  had  closed  his 
eyes. 

Crang  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  can  do  as  you  like,  but  I  cjon't  imagine" — a 
snarl  crept  into  his  voice — "that  it  will  give  him  any 
joy  to  witness  the  ceremony,  or  you  to  have  him.  Suit 
yourselves;  but  I  won't  answer  for  the  consequences." 

"I'll  go,"  said  Claire  simply — and  as  Paul  Veniza 
lifted  himself  up  suddenly  in  protest,  she  forced  him 
gently  back  upon  the  couch  again.  "It's  better  that 
way,"  she  said,  and  for  a  moment  talked  to  him  in  low, 
earnest  tones,  then  kissed  him,  and  rose,  and  walked 
out  from  the  room. 


280  PAWNED 

Crang,  with  a  grunt  of  approval,  started  toward  the 
telephone. 

"Wait!"  Paul  Vcniza  had  raised  himself  on  his 
elbow. 

Crang  turned  and  faced  the  other  with  darkened 
face. 

"It  is  not  too  late  even  now  at  the  last  moment!" 
Paul  Veniza's  face  was  drawn  with  agony.  "I  know 
you  for  what  you  are,  and  in  the  name  of  God  I  charge 
you  not  to  do  this  thing.  It  is  foul  and  loathsome,  the 
basest  passion — and  whatever  crimes  lay  at  your  door, 
even  if  murder  be  among  them,  no  one  of  them  is  com- 
parable with  this,  for  you  do  more  than  take  a  human 
life,  you  desecrate  a  soul  pure  as  the  day  God  gave  it 
life,  and " 

The  red  surged  into  Crang's  face,  and  changed  to 
mottled  purple. 

"Damn  you!"  he  flung  out  hoarsely.  "Hold  your 
cackling  tongue!  This  is  my  wedding  morning — 
understand?"  He  laughed  out  raucously.  "My  wed- 
ding morning — and  I'm  in  a  hurry!" 

Paul  Veniza  raised  himself  a  little  higher.  White 
his  face  was — white  as  death.  N 

"Then  God  have  mercy  on  your  soul !"  he  cried. 

And  Crang  stared  for  a  moment,  then  turned  on  his 
heel — and  laughed. 


—  XXIV  — 

THE  RIDE 

JOHN   BRUCE  turned  the   corner,   and,   on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street,  drew  back  under  the 
shelter  of  a  door  porch  where  he  could  command 
a  view  of  the  entrance  to  Paul  Veniza's  house.     And 
now  he  stood  motionless,  waiting  with  cold  patience, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  doorway  across  the  street.     He 
was  there  because   Crang  was  either  at  the  present 
moment  within  the  house,  or  presently  would  come  to 
the   house.      It  was   nearly  eight   o'clock.     The   old 
traveling  pawn-shop  was  drawn  up  before  the  door. 

He  had  no  definite  plan  now.  No  plan  was  needed. 
He  was  simply  waiting  for  Crang. 

His  eyes  had  not  left  the  doorway.  Suddenly,  tense, 
he  leaned  a  little  forward.  The  door  opened.  No; 
it  was  only  Hawkins  I  He  relaxed  again. 

Only  Hawkins  1  John  Bruce's  face  grew  a  little 
sterner,  his  lips  a  little  more  tightly  compressed.  Only 
Hawkins — only  an  old  man  who  swayed  there  outside 
the  door,  and  whose  face  was  covered  with  his  hands. 

He  watched  Hawkins.  The  old  cabman  moved 
blindly  along  the  sidewalk  for  the  few  steps  that  took 
him  to  the  corner,  and  turning  the  corner,  out  of  sight 
of  the  house,  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  curb,  and 
with  his  shoulders  sunk  forward,  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands  again. 

281 


282  PAWNED 

And  John  Bruce  understood;  and  his  fingers,  in  his 
pocket,  snuggled  curiously  around  the  revolver  that 
was  hidden  there.  He  wanted  to  go  to  that  old  bent 
figure  there  in  its  misery  and  despair,  who  was  fight- 
ing now  so  obviously  to  get  a  grip  upon  himself.  But 
he  did  not  move.  He  could  not  tell  Hawkins  what  he 
meant  to  do. 

Were  they  minutes  or  were  they  hours  that  passed  ? 
Again  the  front  door  of  Paul  Veniza's  house  opened, 
and  again  John  Bruce  leaned  tensely  forward.  But 
this  time  he  did  not  relax.  Claire!  His  eyes  drank 
in  the  slim,  little,  dark-garbed  figure,  greedy  that  no 
smallest  gesture,  no  movement,  no  single  line  of  face  or 
form  should  escape  him.  It  was  perhaps  the  last  time 
that  he  would  see  her.  He  would  not  see  her  in  his 
prison  cell — he  would  not  let  her  go  there. 

A  queer  sound  issued  from  his  throat,  a  strange  and 
broken  little  cry.  She  was  gone  now.  She  had  crossed 
the  sidewalk  and  entered  the  traveling  pawn-shop. 
The  curtains  were  down,  and  she  was  hidden  from 
sight.  And  for  a  moment  there  seemed  a  blur  and 
mist  before  John  Bruce's  eyes — then  Hawkins,  still 
around  the  corner,  still  with  crouched  shoulders,  still 
with  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands,  took  form  and  grew 
distinct  again.  And  then  after  a  little  while,  Haw- 
kins rose  slowly,  and  came  back  along  the  street,  and 
climbed  into  the  driver's  seat  of  the  traveling  pawn- 
shop, and  sat  fumbling  at  the  wheel  with  his  hands. 

The  door  of  Paul  Veniza's  house  opened  for  the 
third  time — and  now  John  Bruce  laughed  in  a  low, 
grim  way,  and  his  hand,  hugging  the  revolver  in  his 
pocket,  tightened  and  grew  vise-like  in  its  grip  upon 
the  weapon.  It  was  Crang  at  last! 


TKE  RIDE  283 

And  then  John  Bruce's  hand  came  out  from  his 
pocket — empty. 

Not  in  front  of  Claire! 

He  swept  his  hand  across  his  forehead.  It  was  as 
though  a  sudden  shock  had  aroused  him  to  some  stark 
reality  to  which  he  had  been  strangely  oblivious.  Not 
in  front  of  Claire!  Claire  was  in  the  car  there.  He 
felt  himself  bewildered  for  a  moment.  Hawkins  had 
said  nothing  about  driving  Claire  too. 

Crang's  voice  reached  him  from  across  the  street: 

"All  right,  Hawkins!    Go  ahead!" 

Where  was  Paul  Veniza  ?  Crang  had  got  into  the 
car,  and  the  car  was  moving  forward.  Wasn't  Paul 
Veniza  going  too? 

Well,  it  did  not  matter,  did  it?  Crang  was  there. 
And  it  was  a  long  way  to  Staten  Island,  and  before 
then  a  chance  would  come,  must  come;  he  would  make 
one  somehow,  and » 

John  Bruce  ran  swiftly  out  into  the  street,  and,  as 
the  car  turned  the  corner,  swung  himself  lightly  and 
silently  in  beside  Hawkins.  Crang  would  not  know. 
The  curtained  panel  at  the  back  of  the  driver's  seat 
hid  the  interior  of  the  car  from  view. 

Hawkins  turned  his  head,  stared  into  John  Bruce's 
face  for  an  instant,  half  in  a  startled,  half  in  a  curi- 
ously perplexed  way,  made  as  though  to  speak — and 
then,  without  a  word,  gave  his  attention  to  the  wheel 
again. 

The  car  rattled  on  down  the  block. 

John  Bruce,  as  silent  as  Hawkins,  stared  ahead.  On 
the  ferry!  Yes,  that  was  it!  It  was  a  long  way  to 
Staten  Island.  Claire  would  not  stay  cooped  up  in 
a  closed  car  below;  she  would  go  up  on  deck  to  get 


284  PAWNED 

the  air.  And  even  if  Crang  accompanied  her,  it  would 
not  prove  very  difficult  to  separate  them. 

He  looked  around  suddenly  and  intercepted  a  fur- 
tive, puzzled  glance  cast  at  him  by  Hawkins. 

And  then  Hawkins  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"You'd  better  get  off,  John  Bruce,"  he  said  in  a 
choked  voice.  "You've  done  all  you  could,  and  God 
bless  you  over  and  over  again  for  it,  but  you  can't  do 
anything  more  now,  and  it  won't  do  you  any  good  to 
come  any  further." 

"No,"  said  John  Bruce,  "I'm  going  all  the  way, 
Hawkins." 

Hawkins  relapsed  into  silence.  They  were  near  the 
Battery  when  he  spoke  again. 

"All  the  way,"  Hawkins  repeated  then,  as  though 
it  were  but  a  moment  gone  since  John  Bruce  had 
spoken.  "All  the  way.  Yes,  that's  it — after  twenty 
years.  That's  when  I  pawned  her — twenty  years  ago. 
And  I  couldn't  never  redeem  her  the  way  Paul  Veniza 
said.  And  she  ain't  never  known,  and  thank  God  she* 

ain't  never  going  to  know,  that  I — that  I "  A 

tear  trickled  down  the  old  face,  and  splashed  upon  the 
wrinkled  skin  of  the  hand  upon  the  wheel.  And  then 
old  Hawkins  smiled  suddenly,  and  nodded  toward  the 
clock  on  the  cowl-board — and  the  speed  of  the  car 
increased.  "I  looked  up  the  ferry  time,"  said  Haw- 
kins. 

They  swung  out  in  front  of  the  ferry  house,  and  the 
car  stopped.  A  ferry,  just  berthing,  was  beginning  to 
disgorge  its  stream  of  motors  and  pedestrians. 

"We're  first  in  line,"  said  Hawkins,  nodding  his 
head.  "We'll  have  to  wait  a  minute  or  two." 

John   Bruce  nodded   back   indifferently.     His   eyes 


THE  RIDE  285 

were  fixed  on  the  ferry  that  he  could  just  see  through 
the  ferry  house.  Certainly,  Claire  would  not  stay  down 
in  the  confined  space  of  the  ferry's  run-way  all  the  trip; 
or  if  she  did,  Crang  w?"1r1n't.  His  face  set.  Quite 
unconsciously  his  hand  had  gone  to  his  pocket,  and  he 
found  his  fingers  now  snuggling  again  around  the 
weapon  that  lay  there. 

And  then  he  looked  at  Hawkins — and  stared  again 
at  the  other,  startled.  Strange,  he  had  not  noticed  it 
before !  The  smile  on  Hawkins'  face  did  not  hide  it. 
The  man  seemed  to  have  aged  a  thousand  years;  the 
old  face  was  pinched  and  worn,  and  deep  in  the  faded, 
watery  blue  eyes. were  hurt  and  agony.  And  a  great 
sympathy  for  the  man  surged  upon  John  Bruce.  He 

could  not  tell  Hawkins,  but He  reached  out,  and 

laid  his  hand  on  the  other's  arm. 

"Don't  take  it  too  hard,  Hawkins,"  he  said  gently. 
"I — perhaps — perhaps — well,  there's  always  a  last 
chance  that  something  may  happen." 

"Me?"  said  Hawkins,  and  bent  down  over  his  gears 
as  he  got  the  signal  to  move  forward.  "Do  I  look  like 
that?  I — I  thought  it  all  out  last  night,  and  I  don't 
feel  that  way.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  was  thinking  about. 
I  was  just  thinking  that  I  did  something  to-day  when 
I  left  my  room  that  I  haven't  done  before — in  twenty 
years.  I've  left  the  light  burning." 

John  Bruce  stared  a  little  helplessly. 

"Yes,"  said  Hawkins.  He  smiled  at  John  Bruce. 
"Don't  you  worry  about  me.  Mabbe  you  don't  under- 
stand, but  that's  all  I've  been  thinking  about  since  we've 
been  waiting  here.  I've  left  the  light  burning." 

Sick  at  heart,  John  Bruce  turned  his  head  away.  He 
made  no  response. 


286  PAWNED 

Hawkins  paid  the  fare,  ran  the  car  through  the 
ferry  house,  and  aboard  the  ferry  itself.  He  was  fum- 
bling with  a  catch  of  some  kind  behind  his  seat,  as  he 
proceeded  slowly  up  the  run-way. 

"He'll  want  a  little  air  in  there,"  said  Hawkins, 
"because  it's  close  down  here.  It  opens  back,  you 
know — the  whole  panel.  I  had  it  made  that  way  when 
the  car  was  turned  into  a  traveling  pawn-shop — didn't 
know  what  tough  kind  of  a  customer  Paul  might  run 
into  sometime,  and  I'd  want  to  get  in  beside  him  quick 

to  help,  and  I "  The  old  cabman  straightened  up. 

The  car  was  at  the  extreme  forward  end  of  the  ferry 
— and  suddenly  it  leaped  forward.  "Jump,  John 
Bruce!  Jump  clear!"  old  Hawkins  cried.  "There's 
only  two  of  us  going  all  the  way — and  that's  Crang 
and  me !  Claire  and  Paul  '11  be  along  in  another  car 
— tell  them  it  was  an  accident,  and " 

John  Bruce  was  on  his  feet — too  late.  There  was 
a  crash,  and  the  collapsible  steel  gates  went  down 
before  the  plunging  car,  and  the  guard  chain  beyond 
was  swept  from  its  sockets.  He  reeled  and  lost  his 
balance  as  something,  a  piece  of  wreckage  from  the 
gates  or  chain  posts,  struck  him.  He  felt  the  hot  blood 
spurt  from  shoulder  and  arm.  And  then,  as  the  car 
shot  out  in  mid-air,  diving  madly  for  the  water  below, 
and  he  was  thrown  from  his  feet,  he  found  himself 
clinging  to  the  footboard,  fighting  wildly  to  reach  the 
door  handle.  Claire  was  in  there!  Claire  was  in 
there ! 

There  was  a  terrific  splash.  A  mighty  rush  of  water 
closed  over  him.  Horror,  fear,  madness  possessed  his 
soul.  Claire  was  in  there !  Claire  was  in  there — and 
somehow  Hawkins  had  not  known!  Yes,  he  had  the 


THE  RIDE  287 

door  handle  now !  He  wrenched  and  tore  at  the  door. 
The  pressure  of  the  water  seemed  to  pit  itself  against 
his  strength.  He  worked  like  a  maniac.  It  opened. 
He  had  it  now!  It  opened.  He  could  scarcely  see  in 
the  murky  water — only  the  indistinct  outlines  of  two 
forms  undulating  grotesquely,  the  hands  of  one  gripped 
around  the  throat  of  the  other — only  that,  and  floating 
within  his  reach  a  woman's  dress.  He  snatched  at  the 
dress.  His  lungs  were  bursting.  Claire !  It  was 
Claire  !  She  was  in  his  arms — then  blackness — then 
sunlight  again — and  then,  faintly,  he  heard  a  cheer. 

He  held  her  head  above  the  water.  She  was 
motionless,  inert. 

"Claire!  Claire!"  he  cried.  Fear,  cold,  horrible, 
seized  upon  him.  He  swam  in  mad  haste  for  the  iron 
ladder  rungs  at  the  side  of  the  slip. 

Faces,  a  multitude  of  them,  seemed  to  peer  at  him 
from  above,  from  the  brink  of  this  abyss  in  which  he 
was  struggling.  He  heard  a  cheer  again.  Why  were 
they  cheering?  Were  they  cheering  because  two  men 
were  locked  in  a  death  grip  deep  down  there  in  the 
water  below? 

"Claire  I"  he  cried  out  again. 

And  then,  as  his  hand  grasped  the  lower  rung,  she 
opened  her  eyes  slowly,  and  a  tremor  ran  through  her 
frame. 

She  lived !  Was  he  weak  with  the  sudden  revulsion 
that  swept  upon  him  now?  Was  that  it?  He  tried 
to  carry  her  up — and  found  that  it  was  beyond  his 
strength.  And  he  could  only  cling  there  and  wait  for 
assistance  from  above,  thankful  even  for  the  support 
the  water  gave  his  weight.  It  was  strange  I  What 
were  those  red  stains  that  spread  out  and  tinged  the 


288  PAWNED 

water  around  him?  His  arm!  Yes,  he  remembered 
now!  His  shoulder  and  arm !  It  was  the  loss  of  blood 
that  must  have  sapped  his  strength,  that  must  be  sap- 
ping it  now  so  that 

"John  I"  Claire  whispered.     "You— John  I" 

He  buried  his  face  in  the  great  wet  masses  of  hair 
that  fell  around  her.  Weak?  No,  he  was  not  weak! 
He  could  hold  her  here  always — always. 

He  felt  her  clutch  spasmodically  at  his  arm. 

"And — and  Hawkins,  John?"  she  faltered. 

He  lifted  his  head  and  stared  at  the  water.  Little 
waves  rippled  across  its  surface,  gamboling  inconse- 
quentially— at  play.  There  wasn't  anything  else 
there.  There  never  would  be.  He  made  no  answer. 

A  sob  shook  her  shoulders. 

"How — how, did  it  happen?"  she  whispered  again. 

"I  think  a — a  gear  jammed,  or  something,"  he  said 
huskily. 

He  heard  her  speak  again,  but  her  voice  was  very 
low.  He  bent  his  head  until  it  rested  upon  hers  to 
catch  the  words. 

She  was  crying  softly. 

"Dear,  dear  Hawkins — dear  Daddy  Hawkins,"  she 
said. 

A  great  mist  seemed  to  gather  before  John  Bruce's 
eyes.  A  voice  seemed  to  come  again,  Hawkins'  voice ; 
and  words  that  he  understood  now,  Hawkins'  words: 

"I've  left  the  light  burning." 

THE  END. 


RET 


A    onn  77  """"""""""iilli 
uuu  779  651     9 


